


Pretty Good Year

by Hth



Series: Pretty Good Universe [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Kid Fic, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Health Issues, Non-Traditional Families, Suicide, aromantic margo, as a topic not onscreen, everyone lives nobody dies, it's a love story!, my tags always make these sound so much darker than they are, yes it's a romantic comedy about depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 175,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: What's it gonna take til my baby's all right?Well, still.  Pretty good year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is covered adequately in the tags, but just for further clarity: there's a lot of discussion in this story about depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation, including some depressive episodes happening on the page. Take care of yourself the way you need to, but I do solemnly swear to you that this is a story with lots of banter and romance and general puppies and rainbows, and that nobody will die and everything will be okay. I'm kind of awful, but I'm not so awful I'd trick you into -- uh, canon. Because fuck canon. Fuck it right in its ear.
> 
> The title and also the summary quote comes from the Tori Amos song, "Pretty Good Year." Yes, I also referenced the same song recently in a Schitt's Creek story, and no, there's no connection. Apparently my Signature Album is Under the Pink, in the Year of Gay Jesus 2019? I can't explain it, don't ask.

Eliot tends bar, and he sleeps from around four in the morning to noon-ish. Margo has an office job, and she jogs at six o'clock before she leaves for work. This is not ideal, but on the general scale of life's unbearable shittiness, it's, you know, fine. Most days Eliot walks down to campus whenever he feels like getting up and they eat together at the kebab truck in the back lot of Admissions, which he thinks is a lovely family ritual. He very much wants to see Margo and hear all about her life, at roughly one in the afternoon, in the back lot of the Admissions building.

Much as he loves her, he does not very much want to see Margo at six fucking thirty in the morning after her run, but sometimes that's exactly how he wakes up, two hours after he went to sleep, with Margo's citrus and coriander body wash in his nose and Margo's wet hair in his eyes. “I love you,” Eliot murmurs, spooning up behind her without opening his eyes. If he opens his eyes, it counts as nonverbal consent. “I'm installing an electric fence outside my room and putting you in a shock collar, but please understand, it doesn't mean I don't love you anymore.”

“Guess what?” she says. “Remember the girl who bought the Masons' condo and then never moved in?”

“No,” Eliot says. “There was a girl? Who are the Masons?”

Margo's sharp little fingernails find the fine skin inside Eliot's elbow, and she pinches. He can't even fight back. It would be like kicking a chihuahua – it's not _undeserved_ , just unsporting. “The old people who owned the place across the hall, and then they went on vacation and they died in that yacht accident? And then a bunch of people came in and cleaned out the condo and put it up for sale, and that blonde bitch came and bought it because her boyfriend got a teaching job? How can you not remember any of this?”

“I don't know,” Eliot says. “It is weird. I usually remember bitches.”

“Right, I was thinking about how the Masons went to the Bahamas and then _fucking died_ ; it was so creepy.”

He remembers the Masons. Sort of. Didn't they die like last September? How is he supposed to remember people a whole eight months after the last time he saw them? “He was always trying to get me to play golf with him. And honestly, I think he really meant play golf. Now _that's_ creepy. What time is it?”

“Like – close to eight,” she hedges. So probably seven. That's right, it's Sunday. He's fifty-five percent serious about that shock collar. “I made coffee.”

“How fun for you,” he says. “It can keep you company when I go back to fucking sleep.”

“Noooo, you have to get up,” she says, closing her hand around his wrist and rattling his arm. “There's a moving truck outside. The bitch and her boyfriend are finally here. _The hot movers are here._ ”

Eliot opens his eyes. “How many hot movers?”

So they open the bay window and put on their cutest silk pajamas and have cantaloupe and croissants and a container of eggrolls they just found in the fridge for breakfast while they supervise six medium-hot boys doing manual labor. It feels about as decadently European as one could possibly manage after three hours of sleep in West Lafayette, Indiana.

But then, that's the blood oath that binds Eliot and Margo: _as fabulous as possible, under the circumstances._

“That's Professor Boyfriend,” Margo says, gesturing with a champagne flute full of La Croix at the one figure who doesn't seem to be doing any heavy lifting. They're three floors up and it's hard to see details, but she's probably right; he's wearing a gray hoodie in 70 degree weather, and he seems to be pacing aimlessly on the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched forward. He texts someone occasionally. His body language doesn't exactly scream excitement over arriving at his new home.

Eliot can sympathize. He's lived in Indiana most of his life, and some days it's still an unpleasant shock to wake up and be aware of that all over again.

“We should bring them something,” Margo says. “Wine, or – cookies? What do people bring their neighbors?”

“You're weirdly into these people,” Eliot says. “Did you make out with this girl or what?”

“Ugh, no,” Margo says. “I told you, she was a bitch.”

“We love bitches.”

“No, the other kind of bitch,” Margo says. “She was _mean_ to me.”

There's a lighter and a crumpled pack with two cigarettes left in the pocket of Eliot's silk robe. Convenient. “Right,” he says around the less-crumpled cigarette, trying to get the lighter to spark. Is this even his lighter? It has a weird army-surplus look to it, and he can't figure out how the safety lock works. “So you're going to make out with her boyfriend.”

“I mean, _maybe_ ,” Margo says. “I can't see the _future_ , I don't know who I'm going to make out with at some point. Maybe he's my soulmate.” Eliot finishes lighting his cigarette just in time to dramatically press his palm to his chest. “You can't be my soulmate, sweetness,” she says. “You know too much.”

Eliot breathes out a long line of smoke and ends it with a blown kiss. “I know everything,” he says.

That does not, it turns out, get you as far in life as one might hope.

 

Margo says a lot of things she doesn't really mean, but apparently she was serious about this Welcome Wagon thing. They go to Whole Foods in the afternoon and buy wine and a dozen blueberry muffins and four ungodly expensive macrons. Margo changes into a blue button-down dress with a Peter Pan collar like she's Donna fucking Reed. “What do you think?” she asks, modeling it for him.

“I honestly don't know what to think,” Eliot says. “Are we taking them muffins or a copy of The Watchtower?”

“Okay, god, _fuck me_ for not wanting our new neighbors to think we're trashy whores,” Margo huffs.

“I mean, they're going to find out eventually,” Eliot points out.

Margo comes over to the couch and perches on his knee, and he puts a balancing hand on her thigh. “We don't have any friends,” Margo tells him, as though she's breaking serious medical news.

“Because we don't like anyone very much,” Eliot says. He doesn't know why Margo thinks it's going to be any different with Blonde Bitch and the Nervous Professor, just because they happen to live across the hall.

“I just want to eat tapas and play Pictionary with other adult humans once every few weeks, I think we can stow our superiority just for that long, can't we?” He's going to make an argument, but Margo puts her hand on his jaw and says very quietly, “You said _let's start over_ , but we never really did. I want to start over.”

He did say that.

And Margo usually gets what Margo wants. Eliot puts on a tie without even being asked. Honestly the vest looks better with one, anyway.

When their new neighbor opens the door, he's holding his phone in one hand; Eliot can vaguely see that he's on Facetime with some brunette. “Yeah, I think they're from the building,” the guy says, and Eliot realizes that he's not even talking to them. “I gotta go, okay?”

“Okay,” the woman says. “Text me after you do the thing, Q. I mean it.”

“I will,” he says, then hangs up on her, shoves the phone in the back pocket of his ill-fitting jeans and runs his fingers through his hair, blinking at them. “Um. Hi? Was there – noise?”

“Of course not,” Margo says sweetly. “I'm Margo and this is Eliot; we live across the hall. We just wanted to say hello to you and Alice.”

Something weird happens to the Professor's face, and he shuffles back a couple of steps, looking down at the hardwood floor. “Um,” he says again. “I'm – It's just me. Alice isn't.... Do you know Alice?”

“We just met when she was here last fall for the closing,” Margo says.

“We broke up. I'm Quentin Coldwater, but it's Alice's – I'm renting – is that okay? She said it would be okay if I rented it until I was finished with my degree, but I don't know if we need – permission or something for that?”

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry,” Margo says. “Here, we brought wine.”

“I think I know where the wine glasses are,” he says, casting a worried glance behind him at the wall of cardboard boxes blocking off his kitchen.

“We could pass the bottle around,” Eliot suggests. “It would be charming and boho.”

“I'm so sorry about him,” Margo says. “He's sweet once you get to know him. And you don't have to share it with us if you don't want to, I know you're busy right now.”

He shrugs and pushes back his hair again. How does that haircut not drive him insane? If Eliot had to employ constant vigilance to keep his hair out of his eyes, he'd lose his temper and shave it the fuck off inside four hours.

It is kind of cute, though.

Quentin is surprisingly cute.

So is the condo, as a matter of fact. It has the same wooden floors and high, vaulted ceilings and gas fireplace and bay window and general open-concept loft styling that Eliot and Margo's place has, but it looks like there have been some renovations recently – built-in bookshelves installed all the way between the window and the fireplace, and the window seat where Eliot and Margo sit when Eliot wants to smoke or they need to spy on hot movers has been torn out and replaced with a big, antique writing desk. Even unpacked and undecorated, the changes make the place look appropriately professorial, as compared to Eliot and Margo's general aesthetic of Faux-Parisian Trashpicked Decadence.

“So you work at Purdue?” Margo asks as Quentin finds three juice glasses and sets them on the breakfast bar. “What do you teach?”

“Oh, I'm not really – I'm starting my PhD program in philosophy in the fall. I'll be a TA in a couple of classes.”

Eliot wants to ask if he's rethinking that life plan, now that he's lost the girlfriend who could afford to buy him a condo, but that seems rude even by Eliot's standards. “How's Purdue's philosophy program?” he asks. “Any good?”

“I mean, it's not Yale,” Quentin snaps. He seems pissed, but he mostly seems pissed at the wine he's trying to open with some cheap gas station corkscrew.

Eliot reaches across the bar and takes the whole thing from his hands, bottle and corkscrew. “Well, as safety schools go, there are worse,” he says, and hands Quentin the open bottle back. Quentin looks baffled and vaguely offended at how quickly that all happened. “Please, I'm a bartender,” Eliot explains. “I can do that with a bread knife if I have to.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says, not entirely convincingly. “I got into Yale. I mean, I'm not trying to-- But I did get into Yale.”

He looks at Eliot when he says it, and then away immediately, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Impressive,” Eliot says, and when Quentin looks back at him, pretending he's not looking, Eliot just smiles and holds out his hand. “Your phone?” he says.

Quentin pulls it out of his pocket and puts it in Eliot's hand without even a questioning look, so yeah, they're definitely going to make out at some point. “I'm putting my number in,” Eliot says as he does it. “Since you're new in town. And now you have someone to call in case you need anything while you're getting settled.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says.

“You know, it's not as bad here as you think,” Margo says brightly. “I'm from LA, so you know, when I moved here I was thinking – blergh. But it's a cute little town. Where are you from?”

“New Jersey,” he says. “Originally. Listen, I'm sorry, I'm not really-- I'm not good at small talk. It was really nice of you – all this.”

“Understood,” Eliot said, putting his hand on Margo's shoulder. “Bambi, come on, let's let the man rest, he must've had a hell of a day.”

They all make their boring, effortfully friendly goodbyes. Margo doesn't complain while they walk back to their apartment, but contrary to what some people think, Margo doesn't actually complain about everything that bothers her. She looks a little wilted, and not just because the blue dress isn't really her color. Eliot puts his arm around her shoulders.

“You were checking him out,” Margo observes.

“He's cute,” Eliot says.

“You think he's straight?”

No. Not a chance in hell. Eliot has used that _give me your phone_ trick before, and it's bulletproof; sometimes a queer guy will ask why, but a straight guy _always_ will. Anytime someone just hands it over on demand? That's a man who wants Eliot so bad he can taste it, whether he realizes it yet or not. “Do you?”

Margo wrinkles her nose. “I don't really like _rebound guy_ for you,” she says. “You're better than that.”

It's adorable that she thinks so.

 

Eliot is off on Sunday nights, so around midnight he's just drinking alone in his silent apartment while Margo sleeps, taking Buzzfeed quizzes on his phone about food he never allows himself to eat, when he gets a pair of unexpected texts from an unfamiliar number. One is just a photo of a prescription pill bottle, with a glass of water and two white pills sitting next to it. The second says _As requested by She Who Must Be Obeyed._

It takes Eliot a second to realize what must have happened.

He grins to himself as he sets up his ashtray and the lit cigarette he's smoking so it leans against the rim photogenically, then his bottle of gin behind it and takes the picture. _So that's what healthy looks like...._ he texts, and then sends his own photo.

There's a slight pause, and then the nameless number replies, just as Eliot suspected, _Oh god I'm sorry, that was for my friend Julia. She's usually my most recent contact._

_It's okay_ , Eliot texts back. _In fact, you can keep calling me that if you want._

It's really a little ridiculous that Eliot doesn't own a corset. He would _kill_ the dominatrix look.

_typing_ his phone says. _typing typing – typing_

Quentin is _typing_ for quite some time, but in the end all he sends is _Goodnight, Mistress_.

Eliot takes a long drag on his cigarette and lies back down on the couch, his feet dangling over the arm. He props his phone against his thigh and hits Save Contact with his free hand, then carefully punches in a single Q.

He looks at it there on the screen of his phone for a long time, with satisfaction.

 

“So when are you going to sleep with him?” Margo asks on Monday while they're standing in line for kebabs.

Eliot had a dream the night before. Most of it's a jumble, but it had the jittery, suspenseful charge that most of his sex dreams do. He remembers Quentin's face looking up at him, then ducking down as his little scowl of wary confusion melted into shyness. He remembers running his fingers through Quentin's hair and tilting his face back up.

He woke up anxious for some reason, maybe still a little hungover, and craving a cigarette. That was about an hour ago.

“I don't know,” he tells Margo casually. “I'm off on Thursday.”

 

He doesn't dream about Quentin again that week.

For all he knows, Quentin snuck out in the night and high-tailed it back to New Jersey. Eliot doesn't see his door open for days or hear a single sound from the hallway.

Christ, for all he knows, the guy is dead over there. Maybe the Masons' old place is cursed or something. Who dies in a yacht crash? It _is_ fucking creepy.

 

Margo sometimes hooks up with an Argentinian woman with a sexy yet impenetrable accent who works in the Office of Global Something Something; Eliot's only met her once and he personally thought the accent was all she had going for her, but when Margo calls and says she's going for cocktails after work with Valentina, he knows she'll be out all night.

She calls on Thursday and says she's going for cocktails after work with Valentina, and he knows she's gently nudging him.

Maybe Margo thinks that if he sleeps with Quentin, Quentin will feel morally obligated to play Pictionary with them at least once. Maybe it's more that she's worried about Eliot, who's been going through a bit of a social dry spell lately.

It's voluntary on Eliot's part. He gets plenty of offers at work, which are no less flattering for coming mostly from the mildly-to-moderately inebriated. He could reupholster his car with phone numbers on cocktail napkins.

He's just not feeling it right now. He has...ennui or something.

The college kids are starting to look a little young to him. The townies are starting to all look the same.

_We'll start over_ , he told Margo, tucking her head under his chin and rocking her back and forth while she shivered and sweated inside a bedspread they had to burn afterwards. _We'll start over_ , he told her again, squeezing her hand while she worked up the courage to get out of the car at the rehab clinic. _We'll start over_ , he said, but he meant _you'll get clean, you'll be happy again, and I'll be here cheering you on._

It really never occurred to Eliot that he'd need to be making changes, too. At the time – his inglorious return to Indiana aside – it felt like things were working pretty well for him. And nothing's really changed in the past two years, so....

Nothing's really changed in the past two years. Eliot might have put his finger on the source of his ennui.

Anyway, Fate has dropped a cute boy in his actual lap, or at least into his actual building, so Margo's right, it would be ungrateful to ignore the opportunity.

He spends some time on his hair, but he opts for a more casual look with his wardrobe choices – just dark slacks and a dark silk button-down with the sleeves rolled up, something he might conceivably have been wearing all day when he decided spontaneously to pop over and check on his new neighbor. He doesn't want Quentin to feel overly targeted, after all; the boy gives off an easily-spooked vibe.

Quentin opens the door when Eliot knocks, so he's not dead. That's the first obstacle to their potential night of passion out of the way. He's wearing what could be the same pair of jeans from last Sunday and a dark blue hoodie with a logo in the corner that Eliot mistakes for a school crest for a second before he identifies it correctly. “Ravenclaw, huh?” he says.

“Oh,” Quentin says. “Uh, yeah. Slytherin?”

“If you're lucky,” Eliot says. “Can I come in?”

Quentin smiles and shakes his head a little like the answer is  _if I were smart I'd say no_ , but he also opens the door, and that's not a no.

The unpacking process seems to be coming along, at least on one half of the condo. Quentin's bookshelves are neatly stocked, and he's hung some framed prints that look like vintage maps and mid-century cover art, but his kitchen is a disaster of boxes and piles. God knows what he's been eating, and somewhere in Eliot's DNA there's an Indiana farmwife who finds this intolerable. “Do you want something to drink?” Quentin asks, moving hesitantly toward the ruins of the kitchen as Eliot closes the door behind them. “I still have most of that wine you brought.”

Margo's the wine-drinker in the family; Eliot thinks it's a little pretentious, actually – for people who like to pretend they're not bolting back literal poison just for kicks. But he would like to set a pattern of  _yes_ for this evening, so that's what he says to that offer. 

Surprisingly, Quentin goes right to the correct cabinet and locates wine glasses easily, so he must have established more organization in the kitchen than is obvious at a glance. He pours the whole bottle out, and it produces two somewhat anemic servings, but this is all symbolic anyway. “What shall we drink to?” Eliot says, raising the glass nearest to him. “New adventures? Starting over?”

Quentin snorts a little and taps his glass against Eliot's. “Aren't you the optimist,” he says.

“Not much alternative, is there?” Eliot says. “You tell yourself whatever you need to hear to get out of bed every morning.”

“And that's what works for you, huh?” Quentin says, making eye contact with Eliot briefly. He keeps doing that – looking right at him with fierce but fleeting intensity, then going back to looking at anything and everything else. He's not sure if this is Quentin-standard, or if Eliot's just special like that. “Everything's an adventure just waiting to happen?”

“Potentially,” Eliot says. “Nine times out of ten it'll just turn out to be boring bullshit, but you never know. There's always Day Ten.”

“Day Ten,” Quentin repeats thoughtfully, before he drains his glass and sets it down between them on the breakfast bar. “Sorry if this is sort of blunt, but – Does your girlfriend know you're here?”

It's actually not that blunt; it takes Eliot a brief instant to shake out the implications, and he can't help but smile when he does. “Margo is on a date right now,” he says. “And I think she's hoping I'm here.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. “So you guys are...”

“Free as birds,” Eliot assures him. “But you invited me in for a drink before you knew that, which I think is sort of rakishly appealing about you. Maybe we'll make a Slytherin out of you yet, Quentin Coldwater.”

“Just being polite,” Quentin says, with a slight curl of a smile that invites Eliot to believe that or not believe it, as he sees fit. “Also, you invited yourself in.”

With that, Quentin leaves his empty wineglass behind and comes out from around the bar. For a second Eliot thinks he's just going to walk calmly into the bedroom and expect Eliot to follow, and to be perfectly honest if it turns out he's that ballsy, Eliot might have to marry him.

That's not what happens, though. Quentin pads barefoot across the long room toward the desk in the bay window, bare except for his open laptop. Eliot trails behind him, his heels clicking on the wooden floor in the silence. “Sorry,” Quentin mutters, punching a few keys. “I was just – trying to get some writing done.”

The desk is huge, the little Macbook small. Eliot hops up and crosses his legs, leaning back on one arm and feeling like a torch singer on a grand piano. Quentin glances over at him sideways and worries his lower lip between his teeth a little, clearly trying not to smile. “Have summer classes started already?” Eliot asks. He feels like they haven't. You can still get parking anywhere in town, and that's not usually true when classes are in session.

“Oh, no, it's not for school,” Quentin says. “I'm...sort of writing a book.”

Yeah, Eliot can see that about him. “Tell me about it.”

Quentin shrugs. “It's – just a children's book. I don't know, it's kind of....” He huffs and shoves his hair out of his eyes again as he shuts the computer down. “It's about these twins who were separated at birth, and they meet for the first time when they both cross over into this fantasy world and there's a prophecy they're supposed to fight each other.”

“So – it's like the Fillory books?”

Quentin laughs and rubs both eyebrows at once with his thumb and fingers. “Yes. Yeah, it's exactly like the Fillory books, and actually the thing I worry about is that it's embarrassingly derivative, so thanks for that.”

“I'm sure you'll have your own spin on it,” Eliot says. “I mean, what do they say? There are only seven plots?”

“It doesn't matter,” Quentin says. “I don't really care about getting it published or anything. I honestly just...needed a hobby. My old therapist said it was a good creative outlet.”

“What does your new therapist say?”

“Don't have one here yet,” Quentin says. “Why, is there someone you like?”

“Me?” Eliot says. “Oh, no, no, god, no. I'm not in therapy. I drink.”

Quentin chuckles. “That sounds so much cheaper than my medications. So what about you, what's your creative outlet?”

Nobody's ever asked Eliot that before, in so many words. “I – am a reformed theater kid, I suppose,” he says. “Actually, I...acted for a while in Los Angeles. Professionally. Semi-professionally.” Eliot doesn't really tell most people about that. It's kind of embarrassing, given that his current lifestyle of chain-smoking, day-drinking, and working for tips in a college town in Indiana pretty well establishes that he failed definitively in LA.

“Really, in Los Angeles?” Quentin says, and he sounds genuinely impressed. “You must have been good.”

“I don't know,” Eliot says. He thought he was good. But a lot of people are good. What Eliot turned out not to be, he supposes, is special. “I was in a shitty dinner theater production of _Camelot_ and an even shittier all-twink version of _Romeo and Juliet_. So, about the same resume as every other waiter-slash-trophy-boyfriend in southern California.”

“Is that where you and Margo met?” Eliot nods, and Quentin's forehead creases as he tries to work it all out. “So – then you both moved to – West Lafayette? There has to be a story there.”

Sure there is, but not one he tells. Instead, Eliot says, “You picked Purdue over Yale. There's a story _there_.”

Quentin looks away. “I.... Yeah, there's – it's – kind of a family issue. I had people I wanted to be closer to.”

Very wholesome, especially in comparison to _my boyfriend pushed me down the stairs and fired a bullet through the skylight, so I thought maybe the whole LA experience was getting a little played out_. Sure, he'd had the crap kicked out of him plenty of times back home, too, but at least he never begged any of those guys to take him back afterwards.

Enough of this. Eliot swings his foot to the side to knock playfully against Quentin's shin, and when Quentin looks up at him with a cocked eyebrow, he says, “Here's the really crucial question.”

“Ask me the really crucial question, then,” Quentin says. There's a lower note to his voice than before, like he knows. Like he's daring Eliot to do it.

“Do I have to read your screenplay if I want to seduce you?”

“It's not a screenplay,” Quentin says.

“That's not a no.”

Quentin stands up and braces one hand on the edge of the desk by Eliot's thigh. He uses the other hand, tucked under Eliot's ear, to pull Eliot toward him. The angle is absolute murder on Eliot's spine, and Eliot will die before he complains.

It's not exactly a _fuck me right now_ kiss, but it's not shy, either. It's – soft. Quentin's lips are just slightly parted, nuzzling blindly, like he doesn't quite know what to do with their mouths but he has no intention of giving up until he figures it out. His hand is a little chilly, but it feels good – grounding. Eliot closes his eyes and rests a hand on Quentin's hip.

When Quentin pulls back, Eliot's lips are wet, and Quentin's breath feels scorchingly hot against them as he murmurs, “That's not a no, either.”

Eliot gets a hand between them and catches hold of the zipper on Quentin's hoodie, dragging it down. “Wanna find out what a yes gets you?”

Quentin gives him another kiss, far briefer but somehow more possessive. “Bedroom.”

Quentin's easily-spooked vibe is, as it turns out, somewhat deceptive.

As soon as the bedroom door is open and the bed is in sight, Quentin turns around and wraps his hand just under Eliot's elbow and pulls, dragging Eliot closer and establishing a hot drag of contact between their skin that Eliot swears fires off invisible static sparks. There's a quick, confused tangle of arms, and by the time they get squared away, Eliot's arms looped around Quentin's waist and Quentin's hands cupping the back of Eliot's skull, they've already been kissing for ages. Quentin's mouth is wide and warm and artlessly, shamelessly eager, and – Eliot doesn't always do this, but he thinks he has some life choices to re-evaluate, because kissing strangers can be awkward, sure, but – apparently it can also be this.

And this is.... Eliot approves.

“This is okay, right?” Quentin asks as he undoes the second button on Eliot's silk shirt, handling it with appropriate care, which Eliot appreciates.

“Only if it's reciprocal,” Eliot says.

Quentin gives him that slightly reluctant half-smile that Eliot is starting to develop a taste for. “I was thinking this might be easier if we were both naked, yeah.”

Eliot brushes his fingertips underneath the fall of Quentin's hair and pushes it back from his temple. “You think a lot, don't you?”

“Mmm,” Quentin says. “I don't recommend it. I was – kinda hoping that's a problem you could help me with, actually.”

“I'm not your therapist,” Eliot says. Jesus, the very idea.

“I've had so much goddamn therapy,” Quentin says. “I want you to fuck me.”

Eliot can't help but smile at him as he pushes off Quentin's hoodie. “Tap the brakes, darling. We're just going to keep doing this and see where it goes, all right?” Quentin looks like he's about to argue, but Eliot draws the t-shirt up off Quentin's body, making sure to stroke firmly up his back and down his arms, and that seems to make him far less inclined to fight about it.

All the fight, in fact, seems to be well and truly gone out of Quentin by the time Eliot is. pressing him down to the bedspread, careful fingers working open Quentin's jeans and careful kisses tracing the line of vulnerable skin underneath is jawbone. Quentin's breath hitches hard, jolting his whole abdomen, when Eliot scritches lightly through the hair on his groin, and he grabs onto Eliot's arms with both hands. “Eliot,” he manages hoarsely. “Jesus Christ.”

“Shhh,” Eliot says. “Just breathe. Nice and slow.”

“Can't,” he says. “I-- fuck.”

Eliot shushes him again and keeps going, pressing gentling kisses to Quentin's chest while he works Quentin's jeans and boxers simultaneously down his hips. When Quentin's cock springs fully free, the head knocks lightly against Eliot's skin – just a tap, but the heat and the anticipation almost pry Eliot's ribs apart like he's about to go under the knife. _Heart surgery_ , he thinks wildly, randomly, and – how long has it been since it felt like this with anyone – since Eliot had someone who wanted him in this keening, heart-pounding, desperate way? He feels insanely powerful. He feels mystified.

He puts his hand around Quentin's cock, and Quentin goes silent and still. Eliot shifts up on his elbow just enough to get a clear look at Quentin's face. Quentin's pupils are blown wide with – lust, hopefully, or possibly shock – but he recovers himself just enough to nod at Eliot and move his hand, pressing it flat against Eliot's lower back, tugging him closer, urging him on.

Still, verbal consent is the gold standard. “What do you need, baby?” Eliot says as he drags his fist firmly up Quentin's cock. “You wanna come? It's okay, just tell me. Like this, or you want me to use my mouth?”

“I – I can't – I want you to get me out of my _fucking head_ ,” Quentin rasps. “Please. Please....”

Eliot kisses him. Maybe that works as well to fry Quentin's circuits as it does for Eliot? One can hope.

When he lifts his head again, he realizes from the tug that several of Quentin's fingers have managed to wind themselves up in his curls. “Ow,” Eliot says mildly.

Quentin gives him a sheepish smile and tries to disengage. “Sorry,” he says. “Does that not – feel good?”

“Why?” Eliot purrs. “Does it for you?” He doesn't wait for an answer, just rakes one hand into Quentin's soft hair at the crown and pulls. Quentin tips back into it instantly, throat bared, lips parting, thighs twitching where they press against Eliot's hips. “Oh, I guess it does,” Eliot drawls. “You're very cute, you know that?”

“Um. Thanks,” Quentin manages on short, choppy breaths. “Are you planning to-- Didn't we decide to be naked?”

They did decide that, but Eliot hasn't minded only being halfway there. It's actually been helpful, allowing him to focus his attention a little more on Quentin, and that's a decision he does not regret. Quentin is – god, more than a little bit bewitching like this, his face open and expressive, his every breath and squirm verifying just how willing he is to give Eliot exactly the yes he came here for, and more. But maybe it's time now.

But first he twists his arm behind him to fish both condoms out of his back pocket and set them on Quentin's nightstand. Quentin watches that process like a hawk, but he doesn't say anything. He does let out a little whimper when Eliot pushes himself up on one hand and uses the other to unbutton his slacks, and he very helpfully triples the number of hands available to push down Eliot's pants and briefs. He seems to linger a little when his hand strokes over Eliot's hip, and he blushes when Eliot winks at him.

It's _killing_ him how cute this boy is. What is even happening to Eliot right now?

“Do we need those?” Quentin asks, his eyes flicking over toward the condoms.

“That all depends,” Eliot says, shaking loose the last of his clothing and kicking it sideways off the bed. “Do you want to come in my mouth?”

“I....” Quentin says, and then visibly bluescreens.

Eliot pecks his lips with a couple of reassuring little kisses. “You're going to have to give me a little more than that, sweetness.”

“I, um. I thought – maybe you wanted to fuck me,” Quentin says.

“Did you?” Eliot says. “Or did you think maybe _you_ wanted that?” Quentin frowns at him. “Have you done that before?” There's no reason to assume that he hasn't, except – something about the way he stutters a little over the words makes Eliot feel like this is Quentin being brave. And nobody's brave if they aren't also afraid.

“Yes,” Quentin says quickly. “Um, or, I mean – yes, but – it's complicated?”

“I think this is a yes-or-no question,” Eliot says gently. “And that sounds like a yes that's not a yes, which is a no.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Quentin says firmly. “Just not – with a man. I mean. They – they make things for this, you know.”

They do indeed. “It's different with a real one,” Eliot tells him.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Gay Dumbledore. I'm inexperienced, not stupid.”

“All Dumbledores are gay,” Eliot says.

“ _Not canon_ ,” Quentin snaps.

Eliot starts to laugh. Quentin – doesn't quite join in, but he does roll his eyes again, this time a little more tolerantly. “You're really a huge nerd, aren't you?” Eliot says.

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Not as long as you don't make me – I don't know, roleplay as an elf or something.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Quentin says, and then almost, almost smiles as he adds, “I don't say this very often, but – can we talk about Tolkien some other time?”

Eliot kisses Quentin's jaw, then his chin, and the corner of his mouth and the tender skin under his eye. “I have an idea,” he whispers against Quentin's skin. “Do you trust me?”

“Should I?” Quentin says in a matching whisper.

“I don't know,” Eliot says. “But I want you to.”

There's a heartbeat's worth of hesitation, and then Quentin nods.

Eliot puts both hands down between Quentin's thighs and pushes them up and apart. He didn't expect much hesitation, but a _little_ wouldn't have surprised him. There's none. Quentin fumbles briefly with one hand, reaching for Eliot's hair and then rerouting with nothing but an awkward stroke over it when he remembers not to pull. Eliot nuzzles his smile into the inside of Quentin's thigh and rolls Quentin's balls lightly in his hand.

There's a delicate art to the positioning for this, but it's no bother. Something about Quentin puts Eliot in a rather delicate mood, and he savors the moment – the control Quentin lets him have. The trust.

Maybe Quentin is just too horny to think straight, but it feels like trust.

Eliot assumes. He's – a little inexperienced in that department, himself.

He keeps Quentin's left leg pushed out, braced against Eliot's arm, but draws the right one a bit closer to Quentin's body, creating the perfect tight fold at his groin for Eliot to push his cock into. He can intimately feel the muscles jump under Quentin's skin, the urge to do something, to push forward and feel more. “Good, darling, that's perfect,” Eliot reassures him between kisses showered along his shoulder. “Shh, hold still, just like that.”

Quentin wraps one hand around the back of Eliot's neck and lets the other one smooth lightly across Eliot's back. Quentin is the one who groans at Eliot's first cautious thrust, his palm flattening and grasping uselessly, finding nothing to hold onto. “God, Eliot,” he says. “It feels like – like--”

Eliot cuts him off with a deep hum and a friendly nudge of his forehead against Quentin's temple. “You don't have to decide what it feels like. You can just feel it.” Quentin nods.

There's sweat and a little bit of pre-come, and it's enough to let Eliot rock back and forth comfortably, a thrum of taut heat lancing through his cock, but not quite a burn. There's room on the other side of Quentin's groin for Eliot to use his hand a little. It's slow and a little bit awkward, but there's something Eliot really likes about it, too – the way they both have to feel their way around inch by inch, every deliberate motion something the other has to respond deliberately to. Everything is careful but still clumsy. Quentin's every labored breath pushes his body up into Eliot's. Eliot can't stop dragging his mouth over Quentin's skin.

“Yes,” Quentin sighs, sounding entirely satisfied even as he grips Eliot's ass and tugs like he wants more, faster. “God, I knew you'd be good at this. I wanted – I thought about this ever since....”

Eliot gets a handful of Quentin's hair and pulls, long and slow, until Quentin makes a throaty, needy sound that damn near puts Eliot over the edge then and there. “You're beautiful,” Eliot says. He doesn't plan to say it. It just happens.

“I love this,” Quentin says. “But can you – I need--”

Yeah. So does Eliot. He kisses Quentin hotly as he shifts over and fits their cocks together, folding his hand around both.

Now's when he could really use some actual lube, but neither of them have any long-range planning skills left – nothing but lizard-brain telling them _don't stop, you'll die if you stop_. They'll have to make do with pre-come and pressure and sheer desperation.

He thinks Quentin comes first. He thinks that's what all the noise is about. And then things are hotter and more slippery, and when Eliot feels his own orgasm hit like a boot to the sternum, he automatically lets go and grabs for the blankets with both fists, anchoring himself through it.

He manages to roll off when he collapses, so he doesn't just hit Quentin like so much dead weight. The room feels unstable around him as his brain bobbles back and forth along the edge of oxygen deprivation. “Jesus,” he mutters.

Jesus, what the fuck is Quentin Coldwater doing to him? A little frottage and a handjob shouldn't break the goddamn universe. It shouldn't – really be anything at all.

“Um. Hey,” Quentin says softly, shifting around to his side and brushing his fingers against Eliot's arm. “Are you – is everything okay?”

Eliot turns onto his side as well, resting his head on one arm and bringing the other hand up to comb Quentin's hair out of his face. He smiles, and Quentin's face relaxes into an answering smile of relief. “Stay right there, baby,” he says. “We need to get cleaned up.”

Quentin catches his wrist as he tries to sit up and says, “But--”

“It's okay,” Eliot says, patting Quentin's shoulder. “I'll be right back.”

He knows where the bathroom is, of course – the same place it is in his own apartment. He's falsely confident enough to try moving around it in the semi-darkness, and he's successful in pulling a washcloth from the towel rack and running hot water over it, but fails at noticing a large box of cleaning supplies shoved up against the sink, and he swears under his breath when he stubs his toe on it.

Eliot washes his hands, and basically the whole front of his body, then takes an extra second to lean his elbows on the edge of the sink and splash water on his face, trying to shock himself out of the ozone layer and back down to earth.

This all sounded so easy when he'd bragged about it earlier – _maybe I'll bang the new neighbor, just because I think I probably can_. Eliot's fucked around plenty for no more complicated reason than that. But this-- Now he – likes Quentin? He barely knows the guy. Fine, Quentin is hot – good face, decent body, Eliot's even irrationally fond of the hair. And fine, the sex was good – great, it was great, it's been a while since Eliot met someone with that exact blend of innocence and shameless sluttiness that gets him going every time.

Fine. All that's fine.

And fine is probably how Eliot should feel right now, but instead he feels....

He's not even sure. Like a shaken snow globe, with bits and pieces of unidentifiable _stuff_ flying in every direction inside him. Jesus, maybe he _should_ be in therapy. Maybe he could pay a professional to tell him why he feels so...messy right now.

Quentin is sitting up against the headboard when Eliot returns. He looks tense, and Eliot knows that's his fault. He kneels next to Quentin and kisses his cheek sweetly before using the cloth on him, and he can see Quentin's face relax a little. He looks _grateful_ , which – Eliot also feels guilty about, somehow.

Eliot drops the sticky washcloth on the nightstand next to the unused condoms, and before he can decide whether he plans to sit or stand or lie down or run away, Quentin is tugging on his forearm with a solid, decisive hand, and Eliot obeys the pull, gathering Quentin up between his legs and holding him while they half-recline against the headboard, kissing slowly and aimlessly.

“Thank you,” Quentin says when they pull apart, his fingers brushing back and forth over Eliot's collarbone. “That was...what I needed.”

“Well,” Eliot says. “You have my number.”

There's a twitch around Quentin's eyes – maybe a flinch, maybe not – but he nods calmly and says, “I'll text you if – if that's what you want.”

It is, but that seems like the wrong thing to say – not false, but wrong. “Sure, sounds good,” Eliot says, because what the hell else is he supposed to say? No, don't? That's not what he wants. He doesn't know what he wants, but not that. “Or you could.... I literally live across the hall.”

Quentin smiles hesitantly. “Good point. We probably can't exactly escape each other, huh?”

Eliot glances at Quentin's alarm clock, which is (and of course it is) a miniature replica of the grandfather clock from the cover of the Fillory books. It's around nine-thirty, which isn't even lunchtime in Eliot's world. “I should probably get out of your way,” Eliot says. “You could still get some more writing done.”

“No, pretty sure I'm not good for much more tonight,” Quentin says with a touch of wryness. “I was planning on bringing the laptop in here and just...watching a movie or something until I fall asleep.”

He doesn't ask for anything, but he keeps looking at Eliot – looking steadily at him, not that jumpy thing he was doing before. “I work nights,” Eliot says. “So I'm – not really tired.”

“I understand,” Quentin says. “It's fine, El. Really.”

Margo calls him _El_ sometimes. Nobody else that he can think of, though. Hearing it in Quentin's voice gives Eliot that shaken-up snow globe feeling all over again, like something apocalyptic is happening to him and he's too dumb to do more than vaguely notice it.

“It's the truth,” he says. “I'm not...saying that because I'm trying to run out the door.”

Quentin looks at him for a minute – long enough for Eliot to change his mind several times over on whether or not that was a fucking stupid thing to say. Finally Quentin smiles slightly and tucks his hair behind his ear, clearing the way to lean forward and kiss Eliot again.

Eliot cups his hands around Quentin's face and gives in. It was stupid – this is all stupid, he's being so goddamn stupid right now – but Quentin is.... Sweet. And kissable, and _so, so_ fuckable, and bright and a tiny bit bitchy and, Eliot suspects, more than a tiny bit brave. And Eliot doesn't want to let go, and he doesn't want to leave.

“I can stay for a little bit,” he suggests as they pull apart. “For the movie. I'll just let myself out when you fall asleep.”

“I'd like that,” Quentin says.

They both have to get out of bed at that point – Quentin to put his boxers on and retrieve the Macbook from the other room, Eliot to make himself comfortable in a strange bed. When Quentin returns he sets up the computer on the second nightstand and lies down on his side between it and Eliot, propped up on his elbow to pull up Netflix. “What are we watching?” Eliot asks.

“You're the guest,” Quentin says. “Thoughts?”

“Do you like _Black Mirror_?”

“Not as a bedtime story, no,” Quentin says, sounding almost affronted. “Something at least slightly less dystopian.”

“ _Ferris Bueller_.”

Quentin shoots him an exasperated look over his shoulder. _How is he so fucking cute?_ “Is an abusive sociopath. In fact, the John Hughes Cinematic Universe _counts_ as a dystopia. No John Hughes.”

“You wanna tell me the right answer, or should I keep guessing?” Eliot says, nudging Quentin's leg with his knee. “How about _Addams Family_?”

“ _Values_ ,” Quentin counters immediately.

“Oh my god, _fine_ , you controlling monster,” Eliot laughs, even though Quentin is correct, the sequel's better. This time when Quentin glances back over his shoulder, he's smiling, and it's all Eliot can do to wait until Quentin sets up the right movie before wrapping his arms around Quentin from behind and pulling him down snugly into his arms.

“Hey,” Quentin says quietly, scratching his nails lightly down Eliot's forearm where it rests over Quentin's waist. “I don't – I don't really know what the etiquette is here. I've never exactly done anything like this. But I just want to tell you that – that I'm really glad it happened – that all that happened. Alice and I, we – we hadn't really been together for months before we officially broke up – been together emotionally or, you know, sexually. And that's my fault, not hers, but. I don't know. I tend to isolate when I'm unhappy, and I guess I've been doing that, and. I think this was good for me. So, you know, whatever happens next, I feel – not so isolated right now, and – it's good. So thank you.”

Eliot closes his eyes and tilts his head back so he can set his chin against the top of Quentin's head. He doesn't know this particular etiquette, either. _You're welcome_ doesn't seem like enough. _I've been lonely lately, too_ seems like way too much.

In the end, Eliot doesn't say anything at all. He just holds Quentin close, the two of them sharing soft, pointless commentary and breathy chuckles as the movie plays on. It feels like the right answer.

Quentin falls asleep just before Wednesday hijacks the Thanksgiving pageant, but Eliot goes ahead and watches to the end, because who doesn't love the Addams family? All the beautiful monsters who love each other with such joyful ferocity. Life should be like that.

He shuts down Quentin's computer for him before he gets dressed and goes. He stops on the way out to fuss with Quentin's impossible hair, and to leave a goodnight kiss on his temple.

Eliot only gets as far as the middle of the hallway before he pulls out his phone and texts Margo, _On a scale of 0 to 100, how dumb would I have to be to catch a crush on the Professor?_

He really figures she'll be too busy to answer, but almost immediately she texts back, _0, I think it's cute. You should GO FOR IT, Mary Ann._

He almost goes ahead and tells her that he did, but she'd only ask how it was, and – that's a longer conversation than a midnight text is suited for. So instead he texts, _Go to bed, Ginger, it's a school night_ , and he puts his phone away.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Based on previous observation, Eliot is convinced his new neighbor is actually a particularly sexy species of cave troll. Or – _is_ it a cave troll? Whichever is the monster that turns to stone in the sunlight. Or maybe he's a cursed princess. Or a reverse vampire, one who can't _leave_ the house unless invited.

Probably he's just regular crazy, like agoraphobic or something, and that's the actual reason he never seems to leave his condo. Most of life's mysteries have really boring solutions.

Bottom line, though, Eliot really doesn't expect he needs to see Quentin Coldwater again for a few days unless he wants to. And he – does want to, sort of, in the dumb animal part of his brain that he keeps Margo around to make sure he never listens to, but in this case even Eliot is self-aware enough to realize that they both need a little space.

He does plan to text. Maybe Saturday right before work, so he can honestly say that he doesn't have time to chat. Maybe Sunday, when he does have time to chat. Eliot's not sure yet; he'll talk it out with Margo at brunch on Saturday and draw up a battle plan.

_I'm really glad it happened_ , Quentin said. _I think this was good for me_.

That's – nice. Eliot knows he's a selfish asshole, but he's not immune to the occasional dopamine rush of being told he's good for something. God knows plenty of people have not found Eliot to be their, shall we say, _healthiest_ life choice, so he'll take a compliment like that where he can get it.

Quentin also said, _I'll text you_ , but Eliot is less willing to believe that one, because....

He's – not sure why, actually. Is that weird?

Anyway, he has time to worry about all that stuff, or so Eliot believes until he's coming back from Friday lunch with Margo at the same time that, miracle of miracles, Quentin is letting himself out of his own apartment. The boy hasn't been outside in _a week_ , Eliot's pretty sure, and now here they both are, alone together in the hallway, and Eliot didn't even tell Margo about last night yet; he's saving it for brunch, because Margo only pays the check if he pulls his weight in the gossip department. So Eliot is woefully underprepared.

“Hey,” Quentin says with a little smile. “You got me in trouble with Julia, you know.”

Whatever Eliot was expecting, it wasn't that. “It usually takes a little longer for someone's friends to start disapproving of me,” Eliot says.

“I forgot to take my pills last night. I woke up to fifteen increasingly pissed-off texts – I'm pretty sure the last one was actually sent from the lobby of JFK.” He doesn't look that unhappy about it. He looks – good, with his hair tied back and a tidy button-down in place of those seasonally inappropriate sweatshirts and a little glow to him like he got himself properly laid last night.

Is Eliot glowing? He feels like he might be developing an anxiety disorder. What's the _matter_ with him? He's usually _charming_ , dammit. “Oops,” he manages to say. “Are you – okay?”

Quentin's smile quirks sideways a little, like he's flattered Eliot would ask. “I'm fine. I feel – great, actually.” Eliot nods his approval. Great is good. “Hey, I wanted to ask you a question. Are you allergic to cats?”

“Am I – what?” Eliot says.

Quentin raises an eyebrow and repeats more slowly, “Allergic – to cats? I'm thinking about getting a cat, and. I was just. Curious.” He falters to a stop, and suddenly he curls in almost imperceptibly on himself, the sparkle in his eyes gone like a pinched-out candle flame. “Never mind, I guess it doesn't matter that much.”

Jesus, _what is the matter with Eliot_? Now he's gotten Quentin convinced it's not even okay to talk to him. He's acting like a lunatic. He's acting like a fucking _virgin_. “What if I said I was allergic?” Eliot says, and finally he's managing to sound like himself, a silky tease in his voice that coaxes Quentin to look back up into his face from across the hall. “What if I said it was me or the cat?”

“Oh, well, I don't know,” Quentin says. “The imaginary cat and I are pretty close – you know, we've theoretically been through a lot together. Maybe it's a little early to be issuing ultimatums just because you're kinda hot and you, uh, exist. You know?”

“ _Kinda_ hot?”

“Don't be a jerk,” Quentin laughs. “It's my first time flirting, okay?”

“I'm supposed to buy that line?”

“Seems only fair,” Quentin says. “I bought all of yours, didn't I?”

And then Eliot gets it. He didn't think Quentin would text because he _wants_ Quentin to text, which automatically activates the protective gear in Eliot's brain. That's why Eliot's been planning how to make his next move – safer that way, right? Easier. A little more control – toss out a line, see what he reels in. Just another day in the life.

What he doesn't seem to know what to do with is...getting what he _actually_ wants. Shit, maybe he _should_ be in therapy.

“First time asking somebody to dinner, too?” Eliot says, because – fuck it. Fuck it, so what, so he doesn't want to just hook up with his hot neighbor. So what if he wants someone to ask him out on a goddamn date, is that too much to ask? Eliot could reupholster his car with phone numbers on cocktail napkins, but he's sick of making the calls.

“It...is, actually.” Quentin looks just surprised enough, and just pleased with himself enough, that Eliot is tempted to believe him. Was the boy recently released from prison, or a Tibetan monastery, or what? “Yeah.”

“Well, so far you're pretty bad at it,” Eliot taunts.

Quentin smiles at him. “Do you want to have dinner with me on Saturday?”

Fuck. Reality gets a vote, too, sadly. “I work weekends,” Eliot admits.

“Oh. Well, some other--”

“Sunday.” You know what? He's still counting this. Quentin still asked him out, even if Eliot picks the time, and probably the place, too. Quentin's new in town, after all. It counts. “I have Sunday nights off.”

“Sunday's perfect,” Quentin says. “I'd say I'll pick you up, but I guess we can just – meet right here? About six-thirty?”

“Sounds good,” Eliot says. “I'll see you then.” They start to head their separate ways at that point, Quentin off to do whatever it is Quentin does in the sunlight, Eliot to begin the process of building a date outfit. “Oh – hey, Q?” Eliot says when Quentin's at the top of the stairwell. Quentin turns back toward him, and Eliot tries out his slyest grin. “Did you tell Julia why you forgot to check in?”

Quentin bites his lip on a little grin and nods. “She said you couldn't possibly be cute enough to put my health at risk over.”

“She has a point,” Eliot concedes.

“Uh, no she doesn't,” Quentin says in a tone that brooks no possible argument. “I mean – yeah, I need to do better remembering the meds, but. Yeah, no. Faulty conclusion based on insufficient data.”

“Why, Professor Coldwater,” Eliot says. “I may be just a simple country boy, but I think that was a compliment.”

“I'll see you on Sunday,” Quentin says.

 

“And you're _just_ telling me this now?” Margo demands over brunch. “You son of a bitch, we had a _deal_.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Eliot says coolly. “I haven't been keeping anything from you, we just haven't had a chance to catch up.”

“We had lunch yesterday!” Which is true. Yes. “You're paying today. _And_ I'm ordering another mimosa.”

Eliot makes a lazy _be my guest_ gesture, because what does he care? He's got Friday-night tips burning a hole in his pocket and a _goddamn date_ lined up for tomorrow night. He's walking on sunshine. He'll buy his girl ten cocktails if she wants. “Things were still a little up in the air yesterday afternoon,” he says. “And then you weren't home before I went to work.”

“But you'd already slept with him.”

Eliot shrugs and tries not to smile at his food. It's a fucking toasted coconut and mango quinoa bowl, so that helps a lot. “I was going to tell the story very differently if he had some kind of straight-boy panic attack afterwards, so I was...giving that a chance to play out.”

“So now you do think he's straight,” Margo says, hacking off a giant slice of her peach cobbler pancakes, _fuck_ her and her skinny-bitch metabolism. When she dies, he hopes she ends up in mango-quinoa hell.

“ _No_ , I don't think he's straight, I think he practically begged me for dick,” Eliot snaps. “That doesn't mean they're not going to panic later on.”

“But he didn't panic,” Margo says. “He asked you to dinner.”

Even quinoa can't keep Eliot from smiling a little at that. “Sort of,” he mutters, unwilling to jinx it by seeming too...something. Happy or whatever. “I basically told him to, so. Technically I guess I asked him.”

“Oh my god, look at you,” Margo gloats. “You're _blushing_.”

“Oh, the fuck I am.”

“You _are_. Is this like a _Dangerous Liaisons_ thing happening right now? Are you going to debauch this sweet boy and then, like, die in a duel for his honor because you _fell in love_ with him?”

He points his spoon at her and says, “You know what, Glenn Close--”

“That's Madame de Hanson to you,” she says. “Seriously, though, sweetness, what did he _do_ to you? I know he can't have any tricks you haven't seen before, so – did he say something? Why do you like him so much?”

“I didn't say I liked him _so much_ ,” Eliot grumbles. “I just said I had a little crush, meaning I want to fuck him again and, I don't know, get Thai or something. You're the one being a giant drama queen about this.”

“Hey,” she says, reaching across the table to put her hand over his wrist. He looks up, and he's supremely fucked right now, because there's _nothing_ he can do in the face of that look that Margo gives him when she's being sincere-ish. “You get why I need to know this, don't you? I'm not just being a gossipy bitch.”

“I swear to god, there's nothing to know. He's cute. He made me laugh. He's thinking about getting a cat, and you know how much I love cat videos. Bambi, I'm not keeping secrets, there's just – nothing to tell. I like him.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair. After she catches their waitress' eye and motions for two more mimosas, she says, “I'm just being cautious. The only other time I've seen you all up in your feelings like this--”

“First of all, I'm not all up in my feelings, and furthermore, he is _nothing_ like Mike.”

“You didn't think Mike was like Mike at first, either.” It's not an unreasonable point, on the face of it. It's just – wrong, it's so _completely_ wrong. “I get that you like the idea,” she says. “The 'romantic love' thing. And if, for whatever reason, that's really something you want, then honey, of course I want it for you. But I don't know if you remember, but it was really fucking _bad_ last time.”

If he _remembers_? He still has the fucking _scars_. “So now you think I'm just only attracted to psychopaths.”

“No, now I think you have literally no sense of self-preservation when you're like this. And he's a total stranger, so yeah, I'm not inclined to give him, like, unfettered access to you when you can't – or _won't_ – defend yourself. Not when I know jack-shit about him.”

“You're very cute when you're belligerent,” he says. “Look, Bambi, I appreciate that you want to protect me. And you did protect me when I needed it, and you know I will love you forever for it. But this has nothing to do with that. Q's a nice guy; he moved here to be closer to his family, and he's writing a children's book – for Christ's sake, he has a Fillory alarm clock. He's sweet. If there's something to worry about it's like, _I think he still has feelings for his ex_ , not like, _I think he's going to dislocate my fingers_. Normal relationship bullshit that I, an adult human man, can handle on my own.” Probably. He _hasn't_ ever handled normal relationship bullshit, but he has a pretty good sense of how it's done. He's a bartender, he hears things.

Margo drums her nails on the table to the tempo of her own thoughts. “We had a deal,” she says at last. She sounds wistful.

“We still do,” he says. “Alpha and omega.”

_You were my first love_ , he told Margo when they were nineteen, stoned on a rooftop in LA, hiding out from a party that a year before he'd have sold a kidney to be invited to. _Oh, sweetness_ , she said, reclining against him and reaching back to stroke his cheek. _What if I promise you'll be my last?_

They've come back down to earth since then. Shit, they've  _come down_ in every conceivable way. But everything else from back then is gone for good, and they're still here. First and last – from the beginning and forever.

“Fine,” she says. “I'll let you do this – for now.”

“Good idea,” he says. “I'll just be more attracted to him if he's forbidden fruit.”

“Gross,” she says. “You're so  _perverse_ when you're in love.”

He's not in love, but he doesn't argue that point.

Actually, it's a little bit entertaining to pretend. What would it be like, to have a smart, nerdy boyfriend who can't dress himself, who stays up all hours working on his ridiculous novel, who sends adorable videos of their cat while Eliot's at work and falls asleep watching movies in Eliot's arms and kisses Eliot before class in the morning and says  _I love you, I'll see you tonight_ ? It'd be nice, wouldn't it? People chase that kind of thing. People lust after it.

Eliot's not sure the reality is ever all it's cracked up to be, but as a fantasy, it doesn't suck.

 

The absolute last thing Eliot expects to see at three o'clock in the morning when he drags himself home from the end of his weekend is Quentin asleep on his sofa. Margo waves at him from the kitchen, which apparently has been used to stage a production of _Sweeney Todd_ , or else possibly cook something with tomatoes, and there's no way Eliot is setting foot in there. He's wearing ivory pants, for fuck's sake.

Instead he sits at the breakfast bar and scans the destruction. “Quick question,” he says as mildly as he possibly can. “What the fuck?”

“We made spaghetti,” she says in the noisy whisper of Margo's giddiest drunk, which is wine-drunk. So they're _wine friends_ now, and isn't that just fucking peachy.

“I don't think I made myself totally clear this morning,” Eliot says. “I want you to _stay out_ of this.”

“I'm helping!” Margo protests. “I like him now.”

“I need a gin and tonic,” Eliot says, “and I need you to tell me everything. And I swear if you made out with him I won't speak to you for a week.”

“I would never,” Margo says, which is a lie, she would and she has, but he knows her falsely-accused eyes, and he believes that she didn't tonight. “I just went over to say hello--”

“Meddle,” Eliot says shortly. “Go on.”

Margo shrugs as she mixes his drink with graceful, practiced movements that don't betray her buzz the same way her loopy, slightly slurred voice does. “I told you, I worry. Anyway, he had a chess set out, and I was like, oh, you play chess? And he does play chess, which you won't even bother to learn--”

“Chess is boring.”

“ _You're_ boring. So we played, and he's really good and I don't like to lose, so I was like, oh, we should have a drink, it's Saturday night, because he looks like he can't hold his booze, which he can't, so I won. Yay! Anyway, then we were drunk, and I invited him over here and we watched that fish-fucking movie you like--”

“That fish-fucking movie. So, the critically acclaimed, Academy award-winning contemporary magical realist classic film _The Shape of Water_?” He's trying not to encourage her, he's really not, but he knows he's smiling at least a little. She's such a dumb bitch when she gets like this. He loves it so much his chest hurts, because she's _such_ a smart bitch every other day of the year.

She waves her hand in his face like he's a fly she's shooing away and puts his drink down in front of him. “And he cried like a little girl through the whole second half. You were right, El, he is the softest thing.” Eliot doesn't recall saying that, exactly, but okay. “Then we made dinner and talked about boys and now we're friends. He is still in love with his ex, though – sorry.”

“I figured,” Eliot says. “It's – whatever, he won't be forever. Or he will, I guess. Time will tell.”

Margo leans across the bar and covers his hand with hers. Her hair dangles over the rim of his glass, and he tucks it behind her ear for her. “He falls in love,” she says seriously. “That's a good thing. You finally picked someone who's....” She holds out her open palm in a gesture that seems to mean, _of course you know_.

Eliot knows and he doesn't. “Emotionally available? You literally just said he's in love with someone else, so no, I didn't.”

It's whatever. Eliot's been in love twice, once with the best person he knows and once with the worst. He got his heart broken both times, because life has a sense of humor like that.

“Who has a heart,” Margo says.

Eliot stops staring into his drink, head snapping up to fix Margo with a glare. “You are not missing any parts,” he says, slowly and clearly enough that she'd have to be half-dead of alcohol poisoning not to hear him. “You, Margo Hanson, are everything you should be and more.”

“I am, aren't I?” she says, squeezing his hand before she lets it go. “But still. Quentin's sweet. Like you.”

Eliot is pretty sure _he's sweet_ and _he's like you_ are mutually exclusive, but Margo has her own take on the world. “Okay, but just because I don't want you to sabotage this doesn't mean I want you to get in the middle and try to help, either. I know you want a wine-and-chess buddy, and I promise I'll do my best to deliver him gift-wrapped to you, but I just – need to control the pace of this, okay? Who knows, maybe we won't even hit it off once we get to know each other better.”

“You already hit it off,” she says. “He likes you a lot.”

It's really taking unfair advantage, pressing drunk Margo to report back on what drunk Quentin told her. Gauche, at best. But clearly Eliot's not _not_ going to do that. “He said that?”

Margo gives him a sly smile that clearly proves she's not too drunk to notice how tacky and pathetic he's being, but of course she's not going to be the one who shuts off the drip of gossip. “He said nobody like you has ever been interested in him before.”

“That could mean anything,” Eliot says.

“But I know what it does mean. I was there for the – context and so on. He said it in this _certain way_. Like he can't understand how he got so lucky.”

Maybe that's how he meant it. Maybe it's not. Margo's not necessarily a great judge of reality – not when she's already decided on the answer she wants. “Drink some water and go to bed,” Eliot tells her. “I'll make sure he gets home safe.”

“Just let him sleep,” Margo says. “Look, he's like a little angel!”

“We have a date later,” Eliot says sharply. “I'm trying to _date him_ ; I can't have him just randomly sleeping on the couch and waking up hung-over at our place like some underage drifter. The guy is getting a fucking PhD in philosophy, I don't want-- Is it wrong to want this to resemble an adult relationship?”

Margo makes the patronizing little noise she makes when she experiences empathy. “Oh my god,” she croons, “you think he's too good for you, too, don't you? That is so--”

“Shut up. Water. Sleep it off.”

Margo leans across the bar and kisses his forehead. “I want this for you,” she says with heart-rending earnestness.

“Shut up,” he repeats tenderly.

He's not entirely sure how to wake Quentin up – how you're allowed to touch someone you've already fucked but are not yet currently fucking but want to be fucking – so he hovers like a weird serial killer over Quentin's sleeping body for a minute before putting his fingers on Quentin's jaw and shaking lightly. Quentin's eyes come open right away, and he blinks a few times and then smiles. “El,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eliot says. “You survived your first Margo party.”

“She's a lot,” Quentin says. “I mean – in a good way.”

“In all the ways,” Eliot confirms. He wraps his fingers around Quentin's forearms and tugs. “Come on. I'll walk you home.” Quentin groans a little as he sits up, but it's an involuntary noise, not a complaint or a counter-argument.

They find his shoes and his keys and his phone. Quentin can walk on his own, but only in a lurching, ungraceful sort of way, which Eliot decides makes it legal to allow Quentin to lean against him for support. Eliot's not sure he's ever given as much thought to any single life decision he's ever made as he's given this week to every tiny touch and movement that involves Quentin Coldwater, and he knows it's ridiculous, he knows he's overthinking every fucking thing. He just has this lingering terror that he's going to be called on to – to justify something he's done, to explain who the hell he thinks he is and what gives him the right.

Jesus, is Margo right? Does he think he's not good enough to be with Quentin, and any mintue now, someone's going to notice and call his hand on it?

That doesn't sound like Eliot. Eliot's life has never really – worked, he's never been what you'd call radiantly happy with his circumstances, but that's because life is shitty and unfair, not because Eliot doesn't deserve nice things. Things like stupid, sweet boyfriends who have homework and – hearts – and who can't hold their merlot. Of course Eliot's good enough to aspire to that – to _at least_ that.

Right?

The walking thing sorts itself out gradually, and by the time Eliot unlocks Quentin's door for him, Quentin can walk inside like he remembers how walking works. Eliot follows him in; he's not going to stay, obviously, but he would like to make sure Quentin gets some water in him and makes it all the way to bed.

Since the last time Eliot was here, a small table and two chairs have appeared near the kitchen – nothing that quite rises to the level of a dining room, but it's one table and two chairs more than Eliot and Margo have to eat at. There's no food on it, though, just a used chess set. Quentin rubs his forehead when he sees it and says, “Huh, right. Did I win?”

“No,” Eliot says.

The pieces are larger than usual, made of smooth, undetailed plastic, and when Quentin picks one up and then lets it go, it snaps magnetically back in place to the board. “I had this out,” Quentin says vaguely. “I just bought it, I thought-- I have one already, but all the pieces are pewter dragons, and they're hard to tell apart....” He glances at Eliot and smiles wryly, and Eliot can see him sobering up as he shakes off the last cobwebs of sleep. “I really do,” he says. “I'm not just making that up because it's _so_ sexy.”

“Well, you would've beaten Margo if she hadn't gotten you drunk,” Eliot says. “So you're smart, but far too trusting, and what's sexier than that combo?”

“Do you play?” Eliot shakes his head. “My dad taught me,” Quentin says, picking up a knight and turning it over in his hand. “It was...something we did together.”

“Is that good?” Quentin gives him a weird look, and Eliot fumbles to sound slightly less like a malevolent alien being. “I mean – is it a good memory? You – get along with your father?”

“I did,” Quentin says. “He died four years ago. Brain cancer.”

Fuck. This is not the type of daddy issue that Eliot comes equipped to deal with. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I... uh, my mother – died when I was three. I like to think we would've gotten along, but I've met my father's ex-wife and his current one, and truthfully his taste in women is pretty shit, so. Who knows.”

“I'm sorry, too,” Quentin says. “I'm not close to my mom. We weren't...that close even when we lived together, and after the divorce I said I wanted to live with my dad, and everyone – that was fine with everyone, you know? We don't really talk now. I mean, Christmas and birthdays, but not.... She visited me the first time I was in the hospital, but not last time. I guess I thought she would. She sent a card.”

Well, fuck her, then, is Eliot's hot take on the subject. But maybe he won't say exactly that, since Quentin looks...disappointed. Personally, Eliot gave up ages ago on being disappointed that he got dealt such a piece of shit parent, and nothing makes him happier than knowing his dad wants to get a Christmas phone call just as much as Eliot wants to make one, which is not at all. They've been done with each other for years and it's beautifully liberating, but Eliot has at least enough empathy to recognize that waiting for a parental visit that never comes could theoretically be painful. “I'm sorry,” he says. “That – that sucks.”

“It sucks,” Quentin says with a little sigh. “I want juice. Do you want some juice?”

“No,” Eliot says. “Thanks. You should hydrate, though.”

“I should, yeah. I'll do that.” Eliot knows just enough about chess to set all the discarded pieces back on the board in the right order, which he does while Quentin kicks his shoes back off and goes to the fridge. When Eliot looks over at the kitchen again, he sees Quentin leaning against the refrigerator door with a bottle of orange juice forgotten in his hands while he looks at Eliot. “We should talk,” he says. “About tomorrow – tonight, I mean. About later.”

It sounds like exactly the kind of _we should talk_ that Eliot does not want to hear. “Should we, though?” Eliot says. “While you're drunk?”

“I'm not. I mean, too drunk to drive, but I know what I'm saying. Eliot--”

“Oh, god, do we have to? Can't you just stand me up like a normal person?”

Quentin tilts his head back against the refrigerator. “I've fucked this up,” he says hollowly. “You're so-- Fuck, I wanted-- I wanted to come here and start school and forget – and just start everything over, like I could just decide to be different person, but I can't. I'm not.”

“You don't have to come up with an explanation,” Eliot says. “You want me to go, I'll just go. You don't owe me anything.”

“I _don't_ want you to go. What I want is to be this – this person that you'd – that you'd want to be with, this person who flirts back and goes out on dates and doesn't, doesn't come with so much fucking drama. It felt so good – pretending to be that person. But it's not the truth. I feel like I'm lying to you, and I don't know how to stop. I don't think you'd want me if you knew everything. I don't know who would. Even Alice doesn't, and we – we tried so hard to make it work.”

“Maybe that was your problem,” Eliot says. “I have good news: I don't try very hard at anything.” Quentin laughs.

It feels nice to make someone laugh. It feels like they're friends, even though they're not.

“I don't want you to go,” Quentin says again, and this time there's an ache in it – not heartache, but a deeper, throaty undertone, like just thinking about Eliot is delicious and filthy and Quentin wants to stop and he can't.

Neither of them retain any interest in the orange juice after that.

God even knows how they make it to the bedroom; everything is a blur until he has Quentin's back up against the bedroom door and Quentin is flailing with the hand that's not twisted in Eliot's hair, blindly trying and failing to find the doorknob to his left. “What the fuck,” Quentin mumbles in annoyance against Eliot's mouth. “I can't--”

“Told you you were drunk,” Eliot says, finding the knob and turning it himself. There's some vague sense in his mind that he should – care about that, or be concerned, or something. He's not sure why, exactly. Eliot's had sex three times sloppy drunk for every time he's done it sober, but – for some reason, Quentin is different. Eliot can't remember quite why, but he's convinced it's true.

“She sells seashells by the seashore,” Quentin says. “Don't you _dare_ leave now.”

“Don't you dare cancel on me for dinner,” Eliot says.

There's a moment of silence before Quentin nods and pulls Eliot down by the back of the neck into another kiss.

They manage the door. They manage the floor. They manage all the way to the bed, and Quentin sits on the foot of it, framing Eliot's hips between his hands and gazing upward. “God,” he says throatily. “You're so – oh. You're gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” Eliot says lazily, winding the fingers of both hands into Quentin's hair. “What are you going to do about it?”

Quentin makes a noise halfway between choking and sighing when Eliot tightens his grip, a tremor running through Quentin's whole body. “I don't know. Anything you want. Please, just... just touch me.”

Eliot thinks he can do a little better than just that. He starts to work on Quentin's clothes, and when he ends by kneeling between Quentin's legs, Quentin leans forward to catch him in another kiss so quickly that the bridges of their noses smack together. “Ow,” Quentin says, laughing helplessly, covering his nose. “Fuck.”

“You should maybe help less,” Eliot says with a fond stroke over Quentin's inner thigh.

“I want to help,” Quentin says. “Don't – don't treat me like some – fragile straight guy. I want to – I want to help.”

“Never said you were fragile,” Eliot says.

Quentin scowls at him slightly. “I'm not-- I'm not. I've never-- I've only been with two people in my life, my first girlfriend and then Alice, but that doesn't mean this is my gay awakening, okay? I'm open to a lot of things I've never done. I'm open to them _immediately_.”

That, Eliot believes. “Are you telling me we're doing this backwards?”

He can see Quentin processing everything, his eyes scanning intently from Eliot's position on the carpet to his own hard cock waiting only inches from the tips of Eliot's fingers. Quentin licks his lips and then says with a little waver, “Maybe.”

Eliot stands up again and starts unbuttoning his own pants. Quentin tries to add his own hands to the process, but he also can't seem to break eye contact with Eliot, so he's hopelessly useless again – at least until Eliot takes hold of Quentin's hand and guides it inside his loosened fly. Quentin seems to have no trouble figuring out what to do at that point.

“How do you afford all this stuff?” Quentin asks as they both work Eliot's pants off his hips. “I'm not really a fashion guy, but I lived in New York. I can tell everything you wear is expensive – no offense, but way too expensive for an Indiana bartender.”

“If you know what you're doing on eBay, you can find a lot of last season's couture, barely worn.”

“And it fits you?” Quentin says. “You're eight hundred feet tall and nothing but leg.”

“God, no, I have to alter everything. I do all Margo's clothes too. If you really think people look as good as we do off-the-rack, then you're right, you're _not_ a fashion guy.”

“You sew?”

He sounds baffled, but also a little bit delighted, so Eliot doesn't even pretend not to preen a little. “Darling, I'm a theater kid who had eight years of 4-H. Give me a hundred bucks and a JoAnne's Fabric and I could put you on a red carpet.”

“There aren't enough anti-anxiety meds on the planet to get me on a red carpet,” Quentin says, “but I still find that oddly hot. Tell me more about 4-H; would you survive the zombie apocalypse?”

“I can change the spark plugs on a tractor and deliver a breech goat, so if the zombie is having mechanical problems and also is pregnant, then I'm the most valuable person you know.”

Now Quentin is openly laughing, but Eliot's urge to preen is not ebbing in the slightest. “No, I'm not laughing at you,” Quentin brazenly lies. “Hey, unless the zombie has questions about Leibniz I'm definitely going to die, so....”

“Then you better stick with me, hm?” Eliot purrs, cupping a hand around the base of Quentin's skull. Quentin makes a vague, agreeable noise as his eyes flutter half-shut, and he lets himself be guided forward.

It's a first blowjob, no doubt about that, but Eliot isn't inclined to complain. God, just the visual alone is worth the price of admission, and on top of that, Quentin's mouth feels – pliant and generous, all of him melting around Eliot when Eliot strokes firmly over his scalp, and the wetter Quentin gets his cock, the smoother their motions become, the more it feels.... Well, Eliot's probably kidding himself, but the vibe he's getting from Quentin's lazily indulgent eagerness is – relief? Gratitude? Like it's a release, just to put himself in Eliot's hands for Eliot's purposes.

God, he wants so badly to come like this, but he makes himself stop. Quentin's hum of disappointment isn't helping. “We should....” Eliot almost distracts himself with the texture of Quentin's warm, wet lip as Eliot slides his thumb across it. “Condom,” he manages.

“Could you just....” Quentin swallows and steels his spine visibly. “Maybe people don't do this in real life, but if you wanted to, you could – come on my face.”

Eliot has to lock up every muscle in his body to keep from fainting dead away, and he's only seeing it in his _head_. “I....”

“You don't have to,” Quentin says quickly. “Sorry, it's probably – I guess it's gross if you think about it.”

“Not necessarily,” Eliot manages. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly.

It gives Eliot a convenient excuse to play with Quentin's hair again, stroking through it and holding it away from his face with one hand while he works his own cock with the other. Quentin closes his eyes, one hand on the bed beside him for balance, the other stroking himself roughly, faster and faster as his breath comes in increasingly staccato grunts.

When Eliot comes, he swears. When Quentin feels it against his cheekbone, he squirms, thrusting up harder into his fist and muttering _yes, yes, Eliot_. It's fucking beautiful, and at least for the moment, it's for Eliot.

He pushes Quentin down and shoves him further up the bed, one hand joining Quentin's, Eliot's fingers swiping across the leaking head. Quentin's legs spread wider and draw up, heels bracing against the edge of the mattress, and Eliot can't stay like this forever, on one arm above Quentin, but then he drops his hand lower, knuckles pressing up behind Quentin's balls, and Quentin's come splatters against Eliot's sternum, burning hot even against the heat of Eliot's flushed chest.

“Jesus,” Eliot says, running his mouth over Quentin's eyebrow. “How did these girlfriends of yours keep the boys away from you, a whip and a chair?”

Quentin pushes a single, ragged laugh out of his chest. “Told you, I lived in New York. I may be an Indiana six, but I'm a Manhattan two. I didn't get as many offers as you'd think.”

“Indiana eight, at least,” Eliot assures him.

The damage is significant enough to exceed the capabilities of a washcloth, so Eliot drags them both into a shower; even though it's four in the morning and neither of them are completely awake, they manage to save each other from drowning. “You can't stay?” Quentin mumbles after Eliot gets him tucked into bed and starts sorting their clothes apart into piles on the floor.

It's tempting. But. “How can you miss me if I won't go away?” Eliot says lightly.

Quentin frowns at him. “And missing you is the goal?”

Eliot wriggles into his underwear and leans down to kiss Quentin's temple. “Builds anticipation for our date.”

“Margo says you like Thai food,” Quentin says.

“Margo lies a lot,” Eliot warns him. “Not about the Thai, I love Thai. Just a heads-up.”

“I don't think I really get you two,” Quentin admits. “Half the time she talks about you like her brother, and half the time like her ex, and half the time like you're married.”

“That's a lot of halves,” Eliot taunts, and Quentin makes a face at him. “We're just-- She's Margo.” Quentin hums as if that's valuable new information – or as if he's half asleep and barely listening. Eliot strokes his hair gently and says, “Thai's good. I'll see you tonight, okay?”

Quentin nods at him with a sleepy smile and lets his eyes close.

 

Eliot hears his text alert blip at him early in the afternoon, but he's still determined to wring out a little more sleep, so he ignores it.

When he's up for real, there are three messages waiting.

_Q: I'm so sorry, I think we have to do this a different night._

_Q: Something came up – family emergency, and I have to go to Terre Haute tonight._

_Q: This sucks, I'm sorry, I wanted to see you. Next time._

So that's that.

 

Margo takes one look at him opening a can of pineapple to put on top of his stupid cottage cheese, still in his pajamas at six o'clock, and purses her lips tightly but asks no questions.

When he's done eating, he joins her on the couch. She's watching  _The Crown;_ Eliot's waiting for her to catch up to the end of the first season before they watch the second together, so he's seen these episodes already, but he lies down with his head in her lap and watches them again. She scritches her fingernails gently over his temple and through his hair, and she still asks no questions.

They finish the whole first season before she says, “So is he dead to us?”

“I guess not,” Eliot says. “We're just – rescheduling. I think.”

“This is a lot of moping for a scheduling conflict,” she points out, as gently as Margo points out anything. He shrugs with one shoulder. “What is it about this boy?” she says. “I know he's smart and he's nice and he likes fish dick, but I've still-- I've never seen you like this before, and you don't even know him.”

“I bond fast,” Eliot says.

“No,” Margo says. “You don't.”

 

It's almost midnight when Eliot hears noises outside his door, and he reacts automatically, because it sounds like – a woman screaming, or a little kid. Something that shouldn't be happening and can't be ignored.

Quentin is just stepping from the stairwell into the hall, and he's carrying the screaming kid in one arm. Crying, actually, more than screaming – just a small knot of arms and curls locked around Quentin's neck, wailing in the kind of desperate misery that only a tired child can manage, his voice only barely muffled by Quentin's shoulder. “Did you steal a baby?” Eliot says.

It's a stupid thing to say, but the crying breaks off, and the kid raises his red, tear-streaked face to glare at Eliot in utter, terrifying fury. “I'm not a baby,” he says.

“He knows that,” Quentin says, which is – sort of true. Eliot doesn't know shit about children, but this one is definitely small enough to be carried but too big to be carried easily, so – toddler? Or – what comes after toddler? “He's just teasing.”

If anything, that escalates the situation. The child sucks in a huge gulp of air, expanding his little lungs to three times their resting size, and bellows, “I DON'T LIKE TEASING.”

“Hey,” Quentin says, quiet and stern. “He didn't yell at you, so you don't need to yell at him. I know you're tired, so just rest, okay?” The dad-voice seems to work, and the boy puts his head back down and resumes his crying at about half the previous volume.  _Sorry_ , Quentin mouths in Eliot's direction.

Eliot shrugs helplessly, still just standing there all useless and decorative while Quentin messes with his keys in his one free hand. “I'll call you,” Quentin says as he gets the door unlocked and shoulders through it. “I'm sorry.”

The door closes again before Eliot can say anything at all in response.

 

An hour later, he gets a text.

_Q: If you're still up, I'm making coffee. Talk?_

 

There's literal coffee, and Quentin hands it to Eliot with a quick, chaste kiss, then sits cross-legged next to him on the couch, nursing his own cup. “So,” he says faintly, running his fingers through his hair. “Now you've met my fucking drama.”

“He's cute,” Eliot says. “How old is he?”

“Almost six. He starts first grade in the fall. I swear I was going to tell you tonight.”

“It's fine,” Eliot says. “Is he – okay? I mean, what's the emergency?”

Quentin sighs the sigh of a man preparing to tell a much longer story than he wants to tell. “Teddy lives with his grandmother,” he says. “Not my mother, Arielle's. Ari and I...met when we were eighteen. We were in the same psychiatric hospital, which is – yeah, they really don't encourage you to start relationships under those conditions, but we were – we were eighteen and lonely and stupid, and it seemed romantic at the time. She was.... I don't know. I guess the first person I thought could...really see me – or who seemed to want to see me – so I was happy to break a lot of rules. We didn't last much past leaving the hospital, and she came back to Indiana to live with her mom. I didn't know she was pregnant until right before Teddy was born. She seemed happy about it when we talked. She said all she'd ever needed was something to give her life meaning, and...I guess she thought this was it. A couple of months after he was born, she killed herself.”

Eliot drapes his arm over the back of the couch and curls his hand around the back of Quentin's neck. What the fuck else is he supposed to do?

Quentin glances up at him gratefully, then goes back to addressing his cup of coffee. “I tried to get custody, but – I mean, I was just a kid myself, and I was only barely less crazy than Ari was. Of course no judge was going to find me more fit than his grandmother. I had a pretty good relationship with Carla, and I had unlimited visitation rights, but I was in school; I didn't get out here as often as I wanted. He knows me, though – he knows who I am, we talk a lot over Skype. I think it's been – pretty successful, overall, but I still wanted to be closer.”

“Hence, Purdue,” Eliot says.

“Family stuff,” Quentin confirms. “Yeah. It's been – complicated, making all this happen. Plans changed a few times, but I'm here now. I just wanted to be more in his life, but now.... The emergency is, Carla is sick. Really sick. Like, she's probably dying. And I have this lawyer, and I've been to all these meetings and appeals and all this bullshit, but they're still saying-- Fuck, I didn't know-- I checked myself into a program last fall, just for a few weeks voluntarily. I was having trouble with – moving and starting school and my relationship being on the rocks, and I thought, you know, better safe than sorry. But now that's out there, and it looks like I'm – the word  _unstable_ has come up a lot in these hearings, and I can't even really say they're wrong.”

“I can,” Eliot says. “Jesus,  _tons_ of parents are unstable, so what? They're still parents.”

“I still – I just wish I hadn't. I wish I'd handled it on my own, and then maybe things would be.... I feel like I fucked things up for both of us, and now they're saying I'm still, I'm not – fit for sole custody, and they want him to go to a foster family when Carla's gone. I don't know, maybe that is what's best for him. I do want what... whatever's best for him. It's just that I was expecting.... I got this room all set up for him, and we were going to – I thought he'd be able to spend some weekends here, and. I want whatever's best for Ted, but they don't know where they're going to send him, and I just feel like anything could happen, and maybe it's selfish, but I feel like I'm losing my chance to be his father, you know?”

“Hey,” Eliot says softly. He lets his arm slide around Quentin's neck and pulls him close. Quentin rests easily in the crook of his shoulder. “It's not selfish to want to be closer to your kid. When I say it out loud like that, does it sound pretty obvious to you? Because it does to me.” Quentin quivers with a silent chuckle against him. “But however it works out, you're still his father, okay? I saw you together for point-five seconds, and I could tell – that you take care of him. That he trusts you. You were a better father in point-five seconds than I ever remember my father being. You'll find a way to make this work. Maybe not the custody, but – the relationship.”

“Thank you,” Quentin says. “And – about us --”

“Don't worry about us. You focus on what you need to focus on, and – you have a friend close by if you need one.”

Quentin shifts around just enough to look up at him. “Are we – friends?”

Eliot kisses Quentin's forehead, watching as his eyes flutter shut in weary relief, and says, “Seems like you could use one.” 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Eliot spends a truly absurd amount of his one wild and precious life on the tie-or-no-tie question. He acknowledges this. It's unreasonable. He gets dressed every day of his life like he's Eva Peron and he needs to strike the exact correct balance between aspirational luxury and populist pandering, and the reality is, nobody gives a shit except him. He _acknowledges_ this.

He likes a good tie, though. It makes him feel in control of his life when he has his midline together.

The fact that he's _not_ especially in control of his life is irrelevant. Honestly, who is? Basically fucking nobody. Maybe Margo.

God, he wishes he'd had time to talk to Margo before she left for work, but he didn't. He texts her pictures of both his tie options, held up against the waistcoat he's chosen, and she replies with a terse _Gold_ , so she must be pretty busy at the office this morning, too busy to chat. That's fine.

It's fine. Eliot has this. He knows what adult humans do, and he can just – do that. He's twenty-six fucking years old, he can _handle this_.

So he handles it. He gets his tie situation together, and his eyeliner situation, and he goes to the bank and deposits his tips in time for his car insurance autodraft not to bounce and he gets just what's on his list at the grocery store, except for throwing in an impulse six-pack of rice pudding and a bottle of sangria.

It's just after noon when he knocks on Quentin's door, and it occurs to him too late that he could be rudely interrupting lunch. He only has time to worry about that for a second before Quentin opens the door and immediately gives Eliot that private half-smile that has, historically, been pretty thoroughly devastating to Eliot's ability to worry about much of anything. “Hey,” Quentin says, and wraps his hand around Eliot's forearm, the one Eliot's not using to hold his grocery bag against his hip, tugging him in through the door. “You look nice.”

“Always,” Eliot says.

The chess set is still on the table, but now it's become the centerpiece of an elaborate Lego structure taking shape around it. The kid is pretty deeply focused on maintaining the structural integrity of his project, so Quentin has to call his name a couple of times before he finally gets Ted's attention. “Come over here,” he says, and although Ted scrunches up his nose like this is clearly a waste of his time, he does it. “This is my friend Eliot,” Quentin says, trying futilely to brush some reason and logic into the kid's long curls with only his fingers. “Do you remember what we talked about this morning?”

“Yes,” Ted says, leaning against Quentin's leg. “It was rude to yell at you. I'm sorry for being rude.”

“Well,” Eliot says, “I believe in second chances, so I'm going to let you make it up to me, okay?” That clearly wasn't what Ted expected to hear. He looks up at his father, who shrugs. “I need to make cupcakes today before I go to work,” Eliot explains, “and what I really need is help with the stirring and the frosting. You think you can handle that? And then we'd split the cupcakes, like friends.”

“What kind of cupcakes?” Ted asks, because he's nobody's fool, and Eliot likes that. Always read the fine print.

He bought both red velvet mix and the confetti kind, and he lets Ted lead him into the kitchen as they discuss the relative merits. He only takes one brief glance over his shoulder at Quentin, who's kind of looking at Eliot like he's the love child of Obama and Keanu Reeves, and possibly the rightful King of Gondor to boot. Eliot winks at him, and Quentin's eyes darken just enough to make Eliot sure that they're going to be _that_ kind of friends, which he wasn't – necessarily expecting or committed to, but....

But he's pleased.

Before Eliot was old enough to serve alcohol, he used to wait tables in crisp white shirts, so he's well equipped to maneuver in a kitchen without making a mess of the counters or his clothes, even handicapped by the “help” of a small child. Quentin's not the slob that Margo is in the kitchen, but Eliot still manages, while cleaning up after himself, to surreptitiously clean a little extra around the faucet and the smudgy fronts of the appliances, because he likes to leave his bar Instagram-ready when he goes home at night, and why not apply the same rules to neighboring kitchens.

“So what's all this?” he asks Ted once the cupcakes are in the oven, gesturing to the Lego architecture.

“I'm building a hangar for Jetfire,” Ted explains. “He's my Transformer who transforms into an airplane, and he needs a place to sleep when I bring him over here. He's at my house right now, because I forgot to pack him in my bag.”

“Well, you have time to finish the hangar, then. Does Jetfire play chess, is that why your dad's chess set is inside the hangar?”

That seems to incense Ted. “It's MY chess game,” he says. “My dad bought it for me.”

“You know how to play?”

“I promised I'd teach him this week,” Quentin says from the couch where he's fiddling with his phone. He looks up at Eliot with a challenging little smirk and says innocently, “You want to learn, too? It would be nice for Ted to have another beginner to play against.”

“Yeah, Eliot!” Ted says, and he grabs Eliot's hand in his enthusiasm – or rather, wraps his own hand tightly around Eliot's two smallest fingers. Ted's hand is inexplicably chilly and damp, which doesn't really bear thinking about, but it's also.... Eliot doesn't know. It's nice. Kids can be nice, it seems – at least if you bribe them up front with the promise of dessert. Eliot thinks he could – definitely handle this role: Dad's Friend, the cool babysitter who doesn't give a damn about appropriate nutrition. It plays, Eliot thinks, to his strengths, or at least doesn't require him to have good advice or any sense of discipline whatsoever, unlike being an actual parent.

So of course he agrees, and the three of them cooperate to free the chessboard from the confines of the Lego hangar and move it to Quentin's big desk, where they all practice memorizing which pieces can go which directions and figuring out why nobody gets to be horses, because it's not like Monopoly where you pick one piece to be you, even though the rooks do look a little like thimbles, and after that they all need a break for icing the cupcakes, and then obviously they need to eat some cupcakes.

Ted shows Eliot his bedroom, which has a somewhat nautical theme, with pictures of characters from _The Little Mermaid_ framed on the walls, and a toy chest that's made to look like pirate treasure. “Yeah, I used to like mermaids,” Ted says diffidently, as though recollecting his youth through a veil of nostalgia. “But now I like Transformers.”

“I already can't keep up with what's cool,” Quentin says wryly, leaning in the doorway.

“It's okay,” Ted says magnanimously. “I still like mermaids a little bit, too. Mermaids _and_ Transformers. Nana lets me have sharks at home – not real sharks, but shark toys and stuff – but she says _The Little Mermaid_ is for girls.”

“Girls are always trying to hog the coolest stuff for themselves,” Eliot tells him. “We can't let them do that to us, right?”

“Right!” Ted agrees. “Like Doc McStuffins!”

“I don't know what that is, but _exactly_ like that,” Eliot says.

Quentin doesn't raise any strenuous objection, but he does say under his breath as Eliot passes him leaving the room, “Carla's going to have my head on a stick.”

“Toughen up, Coldwater,” Eliot taunts just as quietly. Quentin smiles so broadly that his eyes crinkle up a little, and--

Yeah, Eliot's fucked.

He doesn't know where the afternoon disappeared to, but pretty soon Eliot only barely has time to get to work, and to save time he leaves all his groceries in Quentin's fridge. That feels weirdly – entangled, for two people who only qualify on the narrowest of technicalities as even dating, but they are also neighbors. So it's neighborly.

At the door, Quentin puts his hand on Eliot's side and pops up on his toes to kiss Eliot quickly. It's – unexpected. Quentin's flushed with a hint of embarrassment, but he also has a dogged look in his eyes like he damn well expects himself to get over it, and Eliot smiles at him, soft and stupid and so fucking proud of them both.

They're doing this. Whatever this is – this complicated, delicate, grown-up thing that involves – schedules and shopping and kids and kitchen privileges and maybe a spare key at some point? That's a lot, that's fast, Eliot knows, but.... But for once it seems like there's – potential.

Everything about Quentin feels like _potential_ , no matter how sternly Eliot reminds himself to keep at least one foot in reality.

 

He only sees Quentin briefly on Tuesday morning when Eliot picks up his food and steals a few more goodbye kisses while the kid plays something called ABC Mouse on Quentin's computer. “He'll probably be here most of the week,” Quentin tells Eliot between kisses. “They're not sure how long Carla will be in the hospital this time, but yeah, at least til Thursday or Friday.”

“That's fine,” Eliot assures him. “We'll just – we'll work something out.”

“Thank you,” Quentin says. “For-- You're really making this all so easy.”

“I hear that a lot,” Eliot tells him with a wink.

He has lunch with Margo, who hits him four times with her purse and says, “ _Get out of town_ ,” when he tells her. “You should've texted me _immediately_.”

“It felt like more of an in-person conversation,” he says. “Otherwise, you would only have been able to _threaten_ me with violence.”

“An actual kid?”

“I mean, are you asking me if Ted is secretly ten hamsters in a trench coat? I think he's an actual kid.”

“Why is he named Ted?” Margo asks, sounding offended by it. “That's the name of a sixty-year-old man. That's Ted Danson's name. Who names a baby _Ted_?”

“Crazy people, clearly,” Eliot says, but he doesn't elaborate on how gruesomely literal he's being right now. He left out the whole mental-hospital angle, because – well, he could say he's protecting Quentin's privacy, but the truth is he just knows Margo will ask a lot of questions that he can't answer yet.

“What if his kid doesn't like you?” Margo asks.

“Well, fuck you,” Eliot says mildly. “What's not to like?”

She loops her arm through his and leans against him, offering her apology in the form of permission to kiss the top of her head, which he does.

On his break that night, Eliot sits on the cement planter with the dead plants outside the back door of the bar to smoke a cigarette and check his messages. There's a text from Quentin from around ten-thirty that says, _Just got Teddy to sleep. I can't believe how exhausted I am, and it's only been two days._ There's another one from twenty minutes later that says, _I was going to try sending you something sexy, but my brain doesn't even work, I'm basically a dead person._

Eliot checks the current time; it's only been about ten minutes. _Yeah, necrophilia, not one of my kinks_ , he responds.

He doesn't know if Quentin is still awake or not, but right away he gets two responses: _Good to know_ followed by _Are you at home?_

Eliot smirks a little at his phone. Not _that_ tired, then, it seems. _Sorry, darling, afraid not_ , Eliot answers.

 _Too bad_ pops up on his screen. Eliot leans back and blows out a line of smoke, watching the smoke and the summer stars and feeling nothing but contented. He's been mature and supportive while allowing Quentin space, and none of it's actually been that difficult at all. Now they're – friends with benefits, Eliot thinks, and for the first time in his life, that _friends_ part doesn't feel like a polite fiction. The way they talk to each other does feel – easy and casual and friendly, even in the midst of what is very obviously a booty call.

Sure, Quentin's life is a little complicated, and Eliot's schedule is kind of sucky when it comes to interacting with the daylight world, but in general all of this feels sustainable. Like they like each other enough not to get immediately bored with the sex, and want each other enough to make an effort even when it's inconvenient.

They could do this, couldn't they? It could be good, just like this.

Maybe Eliot's not fucked after all. Maybe this is one of those – select few things that – turn out to be worth caring about.

He's so lost in the concept that it takes him a minute to notice that Quentin's sent a follow-up text. _You ever do that thing where you have trouble falling asleep because you keep thinking about some stupid thing you did, going over it and over it in your head?_

Eliot frowns. _No_ , he types. _But then, I drink._

He drinks a lot. Does he drink too much? He – doesn't think so. It doesn't affect his life negatively, anyway, so... that's what matters. Right?

 _I do_ , Quentin responds. _For example, the last time I had you here alone, you were on your knees and I talked you into getting up. I've been thinking about that mistake ever since._

For a beat or two, Eliot is surprised, but then he realizes there's absolutely no reason to be. That damn hair and that shy smile help Quentin pass for innocent, but he's a grad student who writes for fun and told Eliot the first time they hooked up that he liked to use dildos on himself, so it's not like he has a problem with self-disclosure. Why the fuck _didn't_ Eliot assume he'd be good at sexting? Eliot's going to need to exert himself a little to keep up, and that's.... He likes that idea a lot.

He only wishes he had more time left on his break. _Was it a mistake, though?_ he types out hurriedly. _I thought it turned out pretty well._

Eliot holds his breath instinctively until the response pops up – or rather, three separate responses in quick succession. _You make a good point. Mistake is a strong word. Maybe I should drop the editorializing and just say, I can't stop thinking about how good you looked on your knees for me._

Fuck. Eliot drops the cigarette butt and grinds it out under his toe with as much force as he can, just because he has nowhere else to direct his frustration. _Good_ , he manages to type out with slightly unsteady hands. _Don't stop_.

_When are you done at work?_

Fucking fuck. _Late_ , he answers truthfully. _You should probably sleep, you need it. I promise_

_we'll pick this up later. I have thoughts._

That's kind of a lie. He has static electricity sizzling through his synapses and out to every nerve ending in his body, but that's not what thinking means.

 _Sleep would be good_ , Quentin responds. _Night, gorgeous._

It's hours later when Eliot remembers how Quentin told him he wanted to be a person who knew how to flirt, and he pauses right in the middle of mopping and takes a second to process – what a big fucking deal it actually is. That Q is trying all these things with him – risking himself, really, on the unknown. Because it's not just Eliot who's an unknown quantity to Q, but it's pretty much himself, too, or at least this version of himself.

He pulls out his phone and scrolls up the thread, and this time he doesn't dwell on how hot it is. He just thinks about how – surprising it is, that it exists at all. How lucky he's getting, that he met Quentin at the same moment when Quentin was ready to start something new. On Day Ten.

Eliot lets himself linger for a minute over that last _Night, gorgeous_ before he puts his phone away and gets back to work.

 

On Wednesday Eliot sends a quick text just to check in. _Sorry, really busy rn_ , Quentin responds. _Call you later._

He doesn't call, but that's whatever.

 

“I thought you'd have a date or something,” Margo tells him on Thursday night when he broaches the subject of ordering Chinese. “Whatever happened to that thing you were doing, with the dates?”

“He has an actual life,” Eliot reminds her. “He can't just leave the kid at home with a bowl of water because he wants to go out to dinner.”

“But he does still want to go out with you?”

Eliot considers and rejects several extremely bitchy responses. None of this is Bambi's fault; she's just trying to be there for him. “I don't know,” he says. “We're – we're not putting any expectations on it right now.”

Margo wrinkles her nose disapprovingly, but all she says is, “Kung pao shrimp, no rice, double eggrolls.”

They get the food and settle in on the couch, ready at last for season two of _The Crown_ , and there's a second knock on the door. The first thing Eliot thinks is that the delivery guy is back, like maybe Eliot forgot to sign the receipt or something, but when he opens the door it's not the delivery guy, it's Quentin and Ted.

“Hi,” Quentin says softly, and there's a hint of apology in the way his soft eyes meet Eliot's. “Sorry, this is – weird, maybe, but – there's this movie we wanted to see, and I don't have a tv, just the computer, and the screen's a little small for-- God, I'm, uh, trying to make this sound like we're not just inviting ourselves over, but we – are? Kind of? I'm sorry, it's definitely weird.”

“It is,” Eliot confirms. “But I've seen weirder. Come on in.”

Quentin pauses in the doorway to kiss Eliot's cheek briefly and murmur, “Is this actually okay?”

“What are friends for?” Eliot says.

Ted dives for the couch, and then abruptly seems to realize that there's a person reclining on it, which stops him in his tracks. Margo sits up, unhurried, and adjusts her robe around her shoulders, taking in Ted with narrow eyes like a suspicious cat. “Hey,” Quentin says gently, “you remember we talked about what we do when we meet new people?”

“Hello,” Ted says gravely. “My name is Ted Coldwater, what's yours?”

Margo looks up at Quentin or Eliot or both of them. “Oh my god,” she says. “He's so cute – that _hair_.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says, “but we're working on social skills, so if you could actually talk to him instead of about him, that would be helpful.”

She looks back at Ted and blinks like she'd never considered that idea before. “I'm Margo,” she says. “What movie did you bring?”

“ _Moana_ ,” Ted says, and then retreats a few steps to the relative safety of his father's side.

He tugs on Quentin's hand until Quentin leans down enough for Ted to whisper earnestly in his ear. Eliot can't make anything out, but it makes Quentin smile wryly. “So tell her that,” he says. “I think it would be okay.”

Still sheltering in his father's shadow, Ted turns back to Margo and says, “You're really pretty.”

Margo makes a high-pitched little gasp and presses both hands to her chest. “Okay, _precious_ ,” she says. “I love you, come here and have an eggroll.”

“That was easy,” Quentin says under his breath as Ted scrambles up on the couch next to Margo.

“Yeah,” Eliot says fondly. “She is.”

Margo and Quentin take the couch, with Ted happily sandwiched in between them. Eliot is perfectly fine on the floor. In fact it gives him something to do with the slight restlessness that's quivering under his skin, sparked by Quentin's nearness: he gets out Margo's nail polish caddy and settles with his back against the couch and her leg hooked over his shoulder so he can do her toenails. After Eliot teaches him about primer coats, Ted helps him pick out the color; they go for an orangey-peach shade called Live, Love, Carnaval.

Eliot hums along with the songs, because he's not fully up to date on his Disney princesses, but he doesn't sleep on Lin-Manuel Miranda, he has some self-respect. He's always loved doing Margo's nails, the way she feels so delicate when she's resting her hands or feet in his hands, the way he can get lost in the detail work and just exist there with her for a few coats, the way she squawks and kicks her other heel into the back of his neck when he tickles her by blowing on her toes to dry them.

“Can you do mine, too?” Ted asks as he's finishing Margo's second foot.

“Not tonight,” Quentin answers for him. “You're going home tomorrow, and--” He stops and looks uncertain, then clears his throat and says, “I don't think your Nana would like it.”

“Why--”

“Just.... Next time you're here, if you still want to, we can do it at the beginning of the week, okay?”

“I don't even know if I can work on your tiny toes,” Eliot says. “We could do your dad's, though. What color should we use?”

“Yellow,” Ted says without hesitation. “Yellow and black, like Bumblebee.”

“I don't have any yellow,” Margo says. “Just black? Or I have a lavender that would look really good on him.”

“I don't guess I get a say in this,” Quentin says while Margo and Ted go through the box together. Eliot gives him a sympathetic frown and shakes his head regretfully.

In the end they opt for the black. Quentin pulls his foot up on the sofa so Eliot can scooch down to his end, and then carefully lowers his foot over Eliot's shoulder and into Eliot's hands. Eliot can't help running his thumb in a slow crescent around Quentin's anklebone; Eliot has worn a waistcoat as his Signature Piece practically every day since he was seventeen, but he's never felt so intensely Victorian until this moment, almost breathless with the unexpected eroticism of a bare ankle in a completely inappropriate context. What is he supposed to do, _not_ fondle Quentin's exposed skin? Eliot would never dishonor Oscar Wilde's memory like that.

Primer and two coats and a clear top-coat give Eliot plenty of time to enjoy the experience, but eventually it's over, and there's still a good half hour left to the movie. Eliot's not sure quite what to do with himself, but Quentin doesn't allow him too much room to overthink it. He puts both his legs over Eliot's shoulders and loosely crosses his ankles at Eliot's chest, caging Eliot lightly but deliberately with his back against the couch.

Eliot grazes a couple of fingers over the side of Quentin's foot. “Admiring my artistry?” he says.

“Gorgeous,” Quentin says, low and lazy and mellow, and god this is so – is this fucked up? While the kid is right there chattering about the time he got press-on temporary Pokemon tattoos from his kindergarten teacher and put them on his feet by himself? It's fucked up, right?

Or is it just – normal, is this what normal feels like? Eliot never participated in anything resembling cozy family movie nights, but people do that, right, when they like their families? And probably the grown-ups are frequently thinking about how they're going to bang it out later on, and kids never notice, and it only feels fucked up because it's a change for Eliot and nobody likes change, even if it's healthy change? That sounds – plausible.

He realizes that he's skipped directly past kitchen privileges and spare keys and has now cast Quentin in the role of, like, _his husband_ or something. Now _that's_ fucked up, but.... But Eliot likes it anyway.

You know, as a fantasy or whatever.

They can't stay long after the movie; they have to pack all Ted's stuff up tonight, because his grandmother is being discharged in the morning, and Quentin has to drive Ted home to Terre Haute, then meet again with a social worker in the afternoon. Eliot can see the shadow of worry in Q's eyes when he explains that last part, and impulsively Eliot grabs his hand and gives it what he hopes is a supportive and comforting squeeze. It makes Quentin smile, at least. “You still have Sunday off?” he asks. Eliot nods. “Well, let's do something. We can figure out what.”

 _Literally whatever you want_ , Eliot manages not to say. “Okay, sure,” he says instead, and sends both Coldwaters off with hugs.

“You're so fucked,” Margo tells him when she locks the door behind their departing visitors.

“Come on, they're nice,” Eliot protests weakly. “You're the one who said we should have friends, so we – you know, we made friends. With nice people.”

“We don't like nice people,” Margo reminds him. “We like bitches.”

“Lucky for us, I guess so do they,” Eliot says just sharply enough to make her give up the – conversation? Argument? It feels like an argument, but he's not sure who's on what side. “Don't act like your ovaries didn't grow three sizes the minute you had contact with a small child.”

Margo tosses her hair dismissively. “Unrelated.”

“Literally the same thing. Maybe it's – fine, you know? Maybe it's fine if I want a boyfriend. Maybe it's fine if you want kids someday. We act like we're too beautiful and messy and amazing to care about anything as basic as our futures, but – I mean, we can still be beautiful and messy and amazing even if– We can do all that and be happy, too.”

Right?

She sighs a little and presses up against his side, her arm around his waist. “I'm not delusional. I know we're going to get old, and we'll still be in our dumb jobs and our house in Indiana, and – I know we're going to need more than this someday.”

“I'm not saying I need more than this,” Eliot says quickly. “I'm just saying, why isn't it okay to have more than we need? To have things we just want? I thought we were hedonists.”

“We are,” Margo says, but it comes out more wistful than anything else.

Because the thing is, they're not. Not really, not anymore. They're bougie twentysomethings with property taxes and credit card debt and a regular brunch place. They're not as different from the rest of the world as it still feels like they are.

Eliot thinks he's – pretty much okay with that. He's not sure Margo is yet, and that worries him, but he doesn't want to fight about it. She'll come around eventually; reality has a way of not letting itself be ignored forever.

“Just be careful,” she says. “I agree that he's nice, but that's not a guarantee of anything.”

“I am being careful,” Eliot promises her.

He has no idea if it's true or not. He thinks it's true. He's hoping for a hell of a lot, especially this soon, but there's a difference between hoping for something and trying to force it to be what it's not. That's the line he's being careful not to let himself cross, and that's the line that matters. Hopefully.

Alone in the dark, Eliot reaches under the covers and strokes his cock, playing Q's voice again and again in his mind, saying, _Gorgeous_. Fuck, it feels good. _...Gorgeous...._

He knows nothing is perfect – God knows, he knows. He's not expecting Quentin to be, or them to be. It just-- It feels good.

It's been a long time since it's felt okay to hope for anything at all – let alone more than just okay. Since it's felt _actively good_ to have something he hopes for. And maybe it's risky, but Eliot would rather be a hedonist about this than shut it all down just because it might turn out less than ideal.

 _Gorgeous,_ he hears as he makes himself come, thinking of the brush of his fingers over the hair on Quentin's calves. And he feels that way, too.

What he doesn't feel is _careful_. He just won't tell anyone that part.

 

He takes a smoke break at work on Friday, and there's a text from Quentin. _I know you're working,_ it says _, but can you call me when you get off? It's fine if it's late._

That one was sent a little after nine, and at nine-thirty there's a second message that says, _No emergency. It would just be really nice to hear your voice._

Eliot forgets his cigarette. He almost forgets to breathe. Who just – says stuff like that?

Who the _fuck_ is Quentin Coldwater, and how is he doing all of this to Eliot?

The rest of his evening is unbearable; he's a distracted mess, and he finally intimidates a co-worker into staying til close for him – it's not really that difficult; shittier summer tips makes everyone who has rent to pay thirsty for more hours. Eliot lives in a condo that's fully paid off by the inheritance money from his semi-platonic, semi-ex-girlfriend's grandparents, so. Lucky him.

It's still close to midnight before he can escape, and honestly he's so – whatever – so some combination of eager and anxious and needy, that instead of driving home, he just calls Q from his car, at the far end of the parking lot. He must have been more anxious than he realized, because he feels all the nervous energy sucked out of him in a rush of relief when he hears Q's soft, “Hey. I didn't know if you'd call.”

“Everything okay?” Eliot checks, even though Quentin sounds pretty relaxed.

There's a moment of silence on the line, and then Quentin says in a whisper, “I don't know. Yeah. I mean – I'm fine. They're stopping Carla's treatments and starting home hospice care.”

“Oh,” Eliot says blankly. “Shit. I – that sucks. Does Ted know?”

“I'm not sure.”

“How long do they think...?”

“Maybe a week or two. She has some friends from her church staying over there to help with Teddy, and I guess there's going to be a nurse coming to – like, the pain meds and everything. And I know there's really nothing I can do to help, but I still feel like....”

Eliot tries to wait him out, but he's not really a patient person. “It's not your fault,” he says.

There's another beat of silence, but a different, startled kind of silence. “What do you mean? What's not my fault?”

“I – any of it?” Eliot's not totally sure why he said that, either. Just seemed the thing to say. “Things like this just... they just happen.”

“She's dying, and the person who should be there to help her is her daughter, and the fact that she's not – that is my fault.”

“It's not,” Eliot says. “And you know it's not, Mr. I'm-So-Sick-Of-All-This-Therapy. You know damn well.”

Quentin huffs something that's almost a laugh. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Seriously,” Eliot teases, “don't you have a _philosophy_ degree? Aren't you supposed to have something a little more sophisticated to contribute on the topic of life's existential unfairness?” This time he's sure Quentin does laugh a little. “Where are you?”

“Hotel in Terre Haute. I had a couple of drinks at dinner, and I thought maybe I should just stay over.”

“Reasonable,” Eliot says, then turns around immediately and proves he has no idea what that word means by saying, “Do you want me to come down there?”

“What? El, it's a two-hour drive.”

“Closer to an hour and a half. And hotels are depressing and uncomfortable and lonely. Don't you think you'd sleep better if...?”

“I know I would,” Quentin whispers. “Still, I can't – it's stupid, I can't make you drive four hours just to--”

“Just to be the man who'd fall down at your door?” Eliot says dryly, and this time Quentin laughs, it's genuinely a real, live laugh, captured in the wild. “I honestly don't mind.”

“It's a really nice idea,” Quentin says. “But don't. I'll fall asleep way before you could get here. I just wanted you to know – I wanted to say thank you. This week was hard, and you made it – you made everything better. All Teddy could talk about on the drive down here was you and Margo and how great you are.”

Compliments are easy for Eliot to shrug off. He gets them all the time, and they're mostly worthless – true, but still worthless. “Talk is cheap,” he says. “You still owe me dinner.”

“I'm going to take you to dinner _so hard_ ,” Quentin says, and he's obviously playing up the growl in his voice, obviously joking around – and yet it's still definitely working on Eliot.

Across the street from the bar's postage stamp of a lot, there's the back side of a big downtown parking garage. Eliot sits in the protected bubble of his car, watching headlights wind back and forth from inside the garage, hearing distant laughter and the clatter of high heels on the busted blacktop as people pass by him on the way to their own cars. He thinks about how still and quiet hotels always feel to him, the few times he's had to stay in one. He thinks for just a second about the last time he slept in a hotel, which was in Tulsa, Oklahoma, when trading off driving had stopped working, when it was impossible to put any more distance between themselves and LA without actual rest and a shower, when he knew his collarbone was fractured but he hadn't gotten his mouth to move past _I'm fine, it's fine_ yet, and the room was too cold and he smoked almost a whole pack of cigarettes and slept sitting up in a bed that felt like sheet metal, Margo's head in his lap the only thing in the world that felt comfortable, or _bearable_.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come?” he asks. “I got off early, so I'm not too tired to drive, and you just sound-- I don't know, I feel weird about you being alone right now.”

There's a long pause. “El,” Quentin finally says, “I need you to listen to something; I need you to believe me.”

“Okay....”

“I really appreciate that you've – taken an interest, and that you worry. But you need to understand, I have bad days. I have – kind of a lot of them, some weeks. Some years. And you _cannot_ swoop in every time and make me feel better. I'm not saying you're not allowed. I'm saying it can't be done. And I know for a fact that what happens if you try is, you get exhausted and frustrated and sick of how repetitive all of this is, and you resent me and you feel guilty because you resent me, and you burn out, and you disappear. That's not what I want. So we just need to – put some boundaries in place now, so you don't try to rescue me, and I don't end up losing you completely.”

Well, that's...a lot. And Eliot's not all that fond of the truth, actually, or of people who feel so damn married to it, like the truth is this holy thing that has to be spoken no matter what. That shit is annoying. So he snaps a little – or a lot – when he says, “No, you don't get to tell me how I'm going to feel. I'm not your fucking ex-girlfriend.”

Quentin, however, sounds infinitely patient and sober as he says, “No, it's not just Alice. This is

– I've been on this ride all my life, Eliot, I need you to trust me. Dealing with me is exhausting. _Being_ me is exhausting. Julia is my best friend, and we work better in separate cities. My own actual mother told me that she needed more 'breathing room' in our relationship – when I was _fourteen_ , Eliot.”

“And you don't think that might've given you kind of a fucked-up perspective on normal relationships?”

“I think I have been treated by roughly a hundred and seven professional psychologists, and you're not one of them,” Quentin says shortly. “You're not going to tell me anything about me or my mother or my issues or my condition that I don't already know, so just – please. Don't try. I don't need that from you, I just need – a friend.”

Eliot leans back in his seat and drags a hand over his face. His hand is shaking. He doesn't know when that started. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. That's fair.” Here, Eliot realizes, is where an apology should go. For some reason, he can't get that far. He'll be wrong, but he's not ready to be sorry.

“Okay,” Quentin says after a minute, relief in his voice. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Are you sorry yet that you wanted to hear my voice?” Eliot asks, as close to flippantly as he can manage.

Quentin laughs a little. “You're nowhere close to making me regret you yet,” he says, and that takes most of the – tension off, the pressure. Eliot feels himself settle into the silence. He feels himself stop quivering. Who just says stuff like that?

Quentin Coldwater, apparently.

“I thought maybe you just wanted me to sing you a lullaby,” Eliot says.

Quentin hums a little. “I bet you have a nice singing voice,” he says, “but I know better than to tempt a reformed theater kid to sing. That's how you get showtunes.”

“Hey,” Eliot protests. “You got something against showtunes, Coldwater?”

“No, no,” Quentin assures him. “Just not my fandom, that's all.”

“Maybe I can convert you,” Eliot says. Adding the arch touch to his voice comes easily. This, unlike ninety percent of everything else that's passed between him and Quentin, is fully in character for Eliot.

“You'd like to think so,” Quentin replies, his tone perfectly matched to Eliot's.

For a minute, Eliot is on the fence about proceeding, because – this is dorky, this is a very deep level of dorky, and normally he'd never even fleetingly consider giving away this much of the things he loves. But the distance makes it a little easier. And car acoustics are always great. “Give me one chance to persuade you,” Eliot says. “I'll sing you my favorite.”

After a worrisome beat of hesitation, Quentin says, “I'll say yes if you promise to tell me afterwards what makes it your favorite.”

Eliot's stomach lurches. That's – more than he'd planned to give. At least if he answers the question honestly, it is, and he thinks he has to answer honestly. He feels like, somehow – like if he lies to Quentin, he'll regret it eventually. He plays for a minute of time by saying, “My favorite song, or my favorite showtune? Because they're different. Don't stereotype us theater kids, darling.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, how insensitive of me,” Quentin says lightly. “Please tell me you have a secret passion for country music; I think I would literally kill to hear your version of Jolene.”

“My passion for Queen Dolly is no secret,” Eliot says loftily. “Like all right-thinking people, I adore her. But my true passion is actually '80s new wave.”

“Ohhhh,” Quentin breathes out, much less like he's teasing and more like he's genuinely excited by this revelation. “ _Now_ I think I get your clothes situation. I was thinking it was, like, _Dead Poets Society_ cosplay, but of course. New Romantics. I see it now.”

“Yes, it's Dissolute Gay Edwardian Art-School, not Repressed Mid-Century Ivy League Prep-School. Please respect the aesthetic.”

“I definitely do,” Quentin assures him. “It's like, uh – _Maurice_ meets _Moulin Rouge_ , right?”

“Okay, I'm a _tiny_ bit in love,” Eliot says before he can stop himself. It's – just a thing people say, he says it all the time. Quentin will – understand that, right?

Quentin _hmms_ a little into the phone. He doesn't sound displeased, even though he just lectured Eliot on boundaries, so presumably he does understand. “So sing to me,” he says, and it's the mildest possible form of command, and Eliot is helpless before it.

So he does. He sings “On the Street Where You Live,” and he hasn't warmed up or anything, but he has car acoustics on his side, and he sounds – okay. Not performance-ready, but okay.

“That's so sexy,” Quentin says when he's finished, and he has the blurry edge to his voice of someone who has really gotten the intended benefit of a lullaby. “Is that, uh – it's not _Sound of Music_ , it's the other one.”

“You are the actual worst,” Eliot says. “It's _My Fair Lady_.”

“Yeah, that's what I meant.”

“Actual worst.” Quentin is drowsy and content, and Eliot could probably get away without going through with the deal, but now that he's hear, he finds that it doesn't bother him quite so much. “We put on that show in my senior year of high school.”

“Did you sing the...?”

Eliot smiles at the dome of his car. “I played Freddy, yes. It's a – positive memory. That whole year was...actually a really good year for me. I'd finally lost all my baby fat, and most of my bullies had either dropped out of school or died by then.”

“Sorry, died?” Quentin repeats.

“One story at a time. I'd been singing for a while – in church, which I hated, and in choir at school, which I didn't hate – but I'd never really had the confidence to try out for speaking parts or solos or anything before that. But I don't know. That year I started feeling...shockingly good about myself.”

“Was it that shocking?” Quentin asks.

It very much was, but that's not what Eliot wants to focus on. “And I liked acting,” he said quietly. “I didn't realize it would be so easy to just...stop thinking my own thoughts. Think someone else's instead. And I started having sex that year, also thanks to _My Fair Lady._ ”

“Torrid backstage romances,” Quentin says, fondly indulgent. “Were you deflowered by Henry Higgins?”

“Eliza Doolittle, actually.”

Quentin makes a slight scoffing noise. “Do you really count that?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“I mean... I just thought you were....”

Something about the quiet and the rhythmic but irregular patterns of light in the parking garage is slightly hypnotic. Eliot finds himself tapping out slow patterns with his fingers on the steering wheel and slipping further and further into – what? The past? The truth, maybe. “Yeah, everyone thinks I am,” he says. “It's weird, isn't it? For as long as I can remember, everybody just felt bizarrely free to – announce out loud – I mean, some of them in gentler terms than others, but.... When you're a kid you don't know any better, but I look back now and I think... it's so weird to just stand around talking about a seven-year-old child in terms of what kind of fucking you think they're going to be into in a decade or two. It's not just me, right? That's fucked up.”

“I guess it is fucked up,” Quentin says.

“I don't know, everyone said it, so I never really...questioned it, I guess. Even when I'd fool around with female friends, I just thought – I don't even know what I thought. That we were playing some kind of game. But I did... I mean I was... intrigued. And I was turned on. And I really liked my high-school – girlfriend or whatever she was; we were good for each other. But still, it was like – no one had ever given me any space to make a choice about what I was, because everyone already knew. Or assumed they knew.”

“I'm sorry,” Quentin says softly. “You're right, that's all – fucked up. And it's not any less fucked up for me to make assumptions, even though you're not a kid anymore. I'll, uh – I'll teach you the official bisexual handshake when I get home, okay?”

Eliot smiles, and hopes it comes through in his voice. “I'm not sure I'm ready to sign any paperwork. It's been a long time since I've been interested in a woman. Maybe it was just a teenage hormonal thing; maybe it's something I grew out of. I don't know, I've lived with _gay_ my whole life; it's like a broken-in pair of jeans I hate to get rid of.”

“Do you own a broken-in pair of jeans?” Quentin asks skeptically.

“As a matter of fact I do. I wear them alone in my own home where no one else will ever see them, and they feel fantastic.”

And then, at last, Quentin goes ahead and asks the question that everyone asks eventually. “You and Margo....”

Eliot exhales, something perpendicular to both a sigh and a laugh. “Me and Margo. That's.... I don't know what to tell you. She was never my girlfriend, but.... She's my girl.”

“But the two of you don't – sleep together? I mean – no, sorry, you don't have to answer that. I don't want to act like I have some kind of right to – personal information about you.”

“We did. Or – we have, I guess. It's been a while. Most of it was before... before I told her I'd fallen in love with her. She tried to cool things off then, so I didn't get hurt, but I don't know. It still happened every now and then. But it's been...ages now. Maybe we're done for real.”

It's been a year and a half, since they stumbled home drunk from Margo's office Christmas party and collapsed on the couch and fell off the couch and fucked on the floor and Margo said _I miss you so much, baby_ , and Eliot said, _I'm right here, I'm always here_ , and he fell asleep sad and nauseous and woke up less sad and more nauseous and they never talked about it after that.

It felt like, after that time, they were done for real. But Eliot supposes only time will tell.

“I'm really scared of her,” Quentin admits.

“I promise she's all bark. She'll peel your skin off with the things she says about you, but when it comes right down to it...Margo can't hurt anyone. Not really. Jesus, she never even really did anything to Mike.”

“Who's Mike?”

 _One story at a time_ , he almost says, but on the other hand, what would be a better time? “The guy I used to live with. He.... It didn't end well. It didn't actually begin well, but I was a little slow to figure that out. Margo _hated_ him.”

“Should've listened to Margo,” Quentin says.

“One of many valuable lessons I learned from the guy who stole twenty grand from me and broke three of my bones.” He says it lightly, because it is – to him, it's a matter for levity now. That's how he regained his sanity after it all went to shit: by just accepting that it's a story about the time Eliot tried being himself again and found out that he's actually a total fucking idiot. Ha ha. Lesson learned.

Sometimes he forgets that other people don't get quite so much of a kick out of that story. “Eliot....” Quentin says with exactly the kind of warm, intimate sympathy that people think is helpful but _is not_.

“It's fine,” Eliot says dismissively. “It wasn't all at the same time or anything.”

“ _Eliot_ ,” Quentin repeats, this time slightly impatient and more than slightly disapproving. Eliot likes that a lot better.

“It's fine. I'm fine. It's not even – he's not even worth bringing up, usually. I just wanted you to know that... I couldn't have gotten out of that situation without Margo. And I didn't ask for help for a long time, but I should've. So you should realize that, to me, friends aren't – like, _decorative_. They're the people who show up for you, and if they can help you they do that, and if they can't.... You're not alone. Okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin says. “You are pretty decorative, though. Also.”

“Careful,” Eliot says. “I have a praise kink.”

“Okay, what does that even mean, why do people say that?” Quentin huffs, as though this question has been weighing on him for absolutely ages. “ _Everyone_ has a praise kink. Liking it when people are nice to you is _human standard_.”

“Someone's cranky,” Eliot says. “I think you should go to sleep, sweet boy.”

Quentin hmphs, but he doesn't disagree. “I like you,” he murmurs. “I – think I'm going to fuck this up, but whatever stupid thing I end up doing, you should – you should know I really do like you.”

“Take your meds,” Eliot says.

“I did. God. G'night, gorgeous. I'll see you on Sunday, don't forget.”

Yeah, there's no chance he'll forget. “Goodnight.”

 

Eliot doesn't text to check up on him on Saturday, because he can grasp the concept of boundaries.

After he has time to think about it, he even realizes that Quentin was always right about that. He can't go trying to fix Quentin's problems for him; Quentin is a grown man, and even if it wasn't impossible, it would still be infantilizing and just generally not hot.

So they agree, and that's good.

 

He hasn't heard specifics about the Sunday thing, but he assumes it'll happen at sixish, like the last time they had dinner plans. So it's a surprise when Quentin knocks on his door around noon.

Quentin looks like hell, too – fidgety and hunched over like the first day they met, baggy black t-shirt and hair all in his face. Eliot scowls a little at the sight of him, but he doesn't say anything. He does reach out with both hands and brush Quentin's hair out of his face. Quentin huffs out a resigned breath and says, “I – haven't had a great couple of days. I don't know, I don't know how this is going to work, but I didn't want to cancel on you again.”

“If you don't want to--”

“No, I fucking _do_ want to,” he snaps. “I planned all this – I made lunch, I thought we could eat in the botanical garden, and then there's this – I have an appointment at a shelter to see about getting a rescue cat, I thought.... I don't know. I thought you could help me pick one. It sounded cute at the time. Now it's-- I don't know, I just – I don't know --”

“Hey. Hey.” Eliot is still holding onto Quentin's head, and he gently pulls Quentin into his arms and hangs onto him until Quentin's breaths start coming more smoothly. “That does sound very cute, all of it. But I don't want you to do something that's going to freak you out, so if today's the wrong day for this, there are always going to be other days.”

“I want to,” Quentin says meekly. “I don't know--”

“Okay, can you do me this favor? Can you stop saying _I don't know_ for a few minutes? I know it's like a little anxiety tick or whatever, but it's making _me_ anxious now.”

Quentin takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay. I'm sorry.”

“Are you nervous about the date, or is it the – other life-stuff?”

“I don't-- I – guess it's both, probably.”

Eliot kisses the top of Quentin's head. He's taller than Margo, but it still feels easy to do. Natural. “Is there anything I can do to make you less nervous?”

“Just...make me go through with it. I think I'll start to feel better once we.... A lot of the time, you do end up making me feel better.”

Eliot tries not to feel too smug. He pushes Quentin gently away from him and says, “Do you want to wait in here or at your place while I change?”

Quentin looks him up and down. “Into... a different shirt and vest?”

“Yes,” Eliot says with dignity. “Out of my casual-weekend-chores shirt and vest and into my _date_ shirt and vest.”

“We're going to be in the park, I think casual is fine. Also, I honestly should tell you – all vests pretty much look alike to me.”

“And you are not dragging me down to your level,” Eliot says firmly.

So Eliot's first date in a million years is – not what he thought it was going to be, but fuck it, he's determined to enjoy it anyway. So he changes into the outfit he's spent a week picking out, and he steals one of Margo's hairbands from the bathroom and silently offers it to Quentin, and they don't even remotely look like they're attending the same event, but at the end of the day, who cares? They're spending the day together, just the two of them, and Eliot looks fantastic and Quentin put all this thought and effort into the whole thing, way more than just landing on a random restaurant.

They bring a blanket to a shady spot at the edge of the gardens, large enough for Eliot to lie sprawled out on his side, head on his hand, while Quentin unpacks lunch from a canvas grocery bag – gazpacho and tabbouleh and melon chunks and chicken sandwiches with honey mustard and bottles of ginger ale. “This looks so good,” Eliot says. “Did you make all this?”

Quentin glances over at him, and Eliot gets the first smile he's gotten all day – it's small, but it's definitely visible to the naked eye. “I made the sandwiches,” he says. “You – you look. Like you always look. You always look so good to me.”

“Do you only love me for my body?” Eliot mocks gently.

Quentin rolls his eyes and smiles down at the blanket. “I mean, yeah? You're kind of a dick.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eliot challenges. “C'mere and say that to my face.” He reaches out for Quentin's wrist and tugs just firmly enough to convince Quentin he means what he says.

Quentin shifts from his knees to all fours, careful not to displace any food while he shuffles closer on the blanket and meets Eliot's lips in a chaste, lingering kiss. That's about as good as it's going to get, out in broad daylight, but Eliot really does find it so satisfying – the warm sunlight on his skin and the brush of Quentin's chewed-up lips and just – being here, being alive and basically functional and kinda bougie and not some kind of self-hating closet case who never left the farm and is scared to kiss a boy in public.

He's made mistakes, fuck knows, but things – worked out. Eliot wouldn't trade the life he has for almost anything, and that's taking it all as a package: the failed ambitions and the two broken hearts and the three broken bones and all the embarrassing drunkenness and all the times he was afraid for himself and for Margo. Even laying all of it out and looking at it all together... yeah. He likes where he is now that much. No, that's not quite right. He likes _who_ he is now that much.

“What are you thinking?” Quentin asks.

“That this is nice,” Eliot says simply. He could say more, but...it boils down to that, basically.

The shelter is this fancy no-kill place where they let the cats play in carpeted rooms you can go into in order to establish which cats like you best; Quentin had to submit an application last week, and there's still no guarantee he'll be judged worthy.

“Fuck these people,” Eliot says under his breath when they're made to stand around in the waiting room before being allowed to approach the cats. “We can drive twenty miles outside of town and knock on the first door we see with a barn out back. They'll let you fill up a sack full of cats if you want.”

“It's a nice place,” Quentin says, tight and drawn in on himself again after he managed to loosen up so much in the sunshine. “They only want what's best for the cats.”

Eliot remembers that Quentin met with social workers again last Friday, and he's never mentioned anything about how that went. Thinking about that just puts Eliot in a bitchier mood.

There's a cat social worker who lectures them about the awesome responsibility of caring for an animal. Quentin nods over and over, trying so hard to prove that he's listening and absorbing every word. Eliot leans next to the window into the cat room and watches them romp around trying to disembowel fake mice, the carpets, and each other. He isn't really listening to the lecture, but fleetingly he hears _your partner_ and Quentin hurriedly, awkwardly saying, _No, it's just me, he's – I asked him to come, but we're friends, the cat's for me._

Eliot can't take offense. It must be a strange feeling, being treated all your life like a straight person, and then all of a sudden, not. He knows Quentin has been bi in his heart-of-hearts for however long and he's used to that concept, but being visible is something different – something that's bound to feel uncomfortable until it doesn't anymore.

They're finally allowed in the room. There's a dozen or so cats, most of them pretty curious and friendly, so the trick is just to sit down on the floor push a toy around with a stick and see which ones are interested, and which ones try to climb you when they get bored chewing on the stick. Eliot gets tiny claw holes in the arm of one of his better gray silk shirts, but he tells himself that being here for Q is more important than replaceable items of clothing, and it's surprisingly believable.

Quentin finally settles on one of the older cats. They named him Ringo at the shelter, because his fur is mostly white but with gray markings on the face and gray rings around the tail, and he's short-legged and broad, muscular but awkward-looking, like the cat version of a bulldog. “This ugly old thing?” Eliot says fondly, stroking it under its chin. “Are you sure?”

“I'm never sure about anything,” Quentin says. “I don't know, I just like him.”

The process of leaving with a cat is, predictably, even more time-consuming and life-sapping than just getting in the room, but Quentin signs a million things and they leave with a litter box and an eight-pound bag of food and a stack of free literature on cat bonding and immunization records and treats that are good for Ringo's teeth and several jingly balls and a feather on a stick and a kitty bed; Eliot is pretty sure they let you take a baby out of the hospital without this much preparation.

Once they get back to Quentin's condo, Eliot shoots an unboxing video for the cat; it's his first time as a content-producer, and he enjoys it. Quentin thinks they're just recording it to send to Ted, but this cat is ugly enough and Quentin is cute enough that Eliot can imagine it going viral. “You're not really going to keep calling him Ringo, are you?” Eliot asks.

Quentin hums thoughtfully as the cat continues to punch him in the chin with its skull. “He doesn't really seem like a Ringo, does he? No, no, you're big and mighty, aren't you? You sure are. What do you think, El?”

Eliot looks the cat over, pale and square and unlovely but completely ready to be loved, and he says, “Uncle Fester.”

Quentin laughs. “Yeah? What do you think, Fester? What do you think, huh?”

Eliot has a chance to wave the feather on a stick for the cat while Quentin gets the oven going and heats up a rotisserie chicken and some sides for dinner, then sets everything out on the small table. When Eliot comes over, he notices for the first time that there are even candles on the table – fresh candles, bought new and unburned just for this, maybe. Quentin's had a not-great couple of days, but he managed to carry through with all of this, to plan for today and shop for it and – managed to find the energy to hope Eliot would like it. That's so endearing that it kind of hurts Eliot's chest, and he's sorry that he ever silently judged Quentin's outfit.

“Sorry, this is cheesy,” Quentin murmurs with a glance and reluctant smile at Eliot while Quentin fumbles with a lighter for the candles.

“No, it's not,” Eliot says. He puts his hands around Quentin's and gently removes the lighter. Muscle memory and addiction are reminding him that what he really wants right now is a cigarette, but he ignores that and lights Quentin's candles for him. “It's...romantic.”

Nobody is romantic in real life – nobody that Eliot's ever met. Sometimes people will try to put it on, especially older guys who worry that Eliot might be a little out of their league, but – it always shows through, the intent. It's a bribe or it's a boast, _let me take you somewhere and show you off – prove where I can get us in – prove what I can do for you_. It always feels vaguely tacky, even though he always goes along with it.

In real life, no one actually goes to any trouble just because.... He can't say he knows exactly why Q wanted it like this, but it feels – sincere.

Everything about Quentin feels _sincere_ in a way that Eliot's never had in his life before. He's had _honest_ – he has apps full of people who are honest about the way they want him, a drawer full of cocktail napkins, a contact list full of names he can no longer put faces to in his memory – but sincere is different. Quentin is different.

“Why philosophy?” Eliot asks him while they eat by candlelight.

“Why anything?” Quentin replies. After a beat he adds, “I'm not being facetious. That's the answer.” Eliot ponders that a second. He graduated in the middle of his high-school class and has barely cracked a book in the seven years since, but he's not stupid. He pretty much gets what Quentin is saying. “Why acting?”

“I'm not an actor.”

Quentin half-smiles at him. “Aren't you?”

Eliot rolls his last red potato around the rim of his plate, ignoring the cat mewling over the indignity of being served cat food while everyone else eats delicious bird. “I guess.... Because I was a really unhappy kid. My parents were shitty, I hated church almost as much as church hated me, I was fat and effeminate and I always cried when people hit me – I mean, I'm not uniquely tragic or anything, it's a million people's story. I just.... Being me was always a problem. It was a problem for everyone around me, and I wasn't too thrilled with it myself. So when I finally realized you could just – be someone else – that was the first lifeline I ever really got. Being me sucked, but – _becoming_ me was the greatest creative project of my life.”

“That's...really beautiful,” Quentin says. “That's not. How it worked for me, but I'm glad it did for you. You're just – so talented and confident and funny and – and good-looking, and – I wanted to do something really memorable for you, but I could barely get out of bed and take a shower, and I know I don't have that many chances left because you're going to move on pretty soon, you could probably have any--”

“Okay,” Eliot says, as calm and nonthreatening as he can, reaching across the table to put his hand over Q's. “Stop talking. I am generally fantastic, we all know this. And where am I right now?”

“Here?” Quentin says in a small voice. Eliot nods. Quentin looks down at their hands and says in a weird, monotone voice, “I've been institutionalized. More than once.”

“Okay,” Eliot says.

“And I tell myself I'm starting over every time, and every time I – it's better for a little while, and then it's – it's the same. Because no matter what pills I take or who I talk to about my mother, it's always just. At the end of the day, I'm still always just – this person that I fucking hate. I'm sorry,” he says, pulling his hand away and using it to wipe at his eyes. “I didn't want to fail at this, but I usually, I usually do anyway, so. I'm sorry, I let you down, I let Teddy down, I'm _sorry_ \--”

Eliot has no idea how he's supposed to handle this, so he figures fuck it, he's just gonna have to improvise. He comes around the table and puts his arms lightly around Quentin's neck, and it must be at least marginally acceptable, because Quentin leans his head against Eliot's chest and tucks his head down, his face hidden against Eliot's arm. Eliot strokes his hair and tucks in the strands that have come loose from Margo's hairband. “I know you said don't try to fix you,” Eliot says, “so I'm working very hard not to explain to you how wrong you are.” Quentin's body hitches against him in an unwilling little laugh, and Eliot strokes his shoulder. “I know you know this is – not a rational thing, so there's no point in us trying to debate each other about how much you do or do not suck.”

“I know,” Quentin says quietly. “Yeah.”

“But please know that I have every confidence I would win that debate.” Quentin laughs again and brings his arms up around Eliot's waist. “I had a good day. The only reason I didn't have a great day is that I was worried about you during some parts of it. I know that sounds condescending or whatever, but I want to be honest with you.”

“I appreciate it. And even if – I complain sometimes about people caring about me, I want you to know that – I'm alive right now because people have done that. On my worst days, sometimes the only – the only thing that helps is knowing that there are a few people who would be.... I mean. It's only a few people – my dad before he died, Julia, Alice, Teddy – and maybe, I mean, I think hopefully you, now? A few people who I'd really hurt if I did anything stupid. Out of a million tricks they tried to teach me in therapy about reframing and whatever else, that's-- On my really bad days, that's all that works. I don't want to hurt people who care about me. So I'll probably still bitch about it sometimes, but – I do need it. I know I do.”

“I don't want to push you,” Eliot says. “I don't want you to worry that you're – exhausting or a burden or whatever punitive bullshit your brain churns out. So we're just going to play this day by day, all right?” Quentin nods against him. “But I want to be on the list.”

“What?”

“The list, the one you just said. The people you think about. Who – care about you. I want you to put me on it.”

“Okay.”

“No, say it.”

“What?” Quentin says again, recovered now enough to sound a little annoyed.

Eliot strokes his hair firmly. “If you have a bad night tonight, or the next time you have a really bad day, what are you going to tell yourself if none of the other tricks work?”

Quentin huffs and says with a note of impatience, “I don't want to hurt people who care about me. Julia and Alice and Teddy and – and Eliot, they would all – they'd be really hurt, if anything happened to me, so. I can't put them through that. There, how was that?”

“Acceptable,” Eliot says. “I'm going to finish dinner now, okay?”

He doesn't stay over after dinner. He probably could have; the way they kiss goodnight at the door, over and over and over, demonstrates that they still want each other far more than is going to be scuttled by a less-than-perfect date or mood. He considers asking, actually, as his fingers glide up the side of Quentin's neck and Quentin shivers and yearns up into the kiss. He considers it extremely seriously.

When he's just on the verge, though, Fester provides a distraction by jumping on the table after the scent of chicken scraps, because sometimes a good wingman knows when to say no. “He just wants your attention,” Eliot tells Quentin.

“Pretty sure he wants the chicken.”

Eliot puts Quentin away from him with a light stroke of his thumb across Quentin's wet lip. “You should go bond with him, help him settle in.”

“I thought you were going out with Q,” Margo accuses when he comes home. It's only about seven o'clock.

“I did,” he says. “We had a picnic in the botanical gardens, and we adopted a cat, and we had dinner by candlelight, it was delightful, please calm your tits.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding only partially soothed. “You didn't want to fuck him? Wait, you adopted what?”

Instead of answering, he comes into the kitchen where she's slicing bananas and strawberries to put on top of her yogurt, and he pulls her firmly into his arms. She's stiff with confusion for a moment, but quickly enough she relaxes against him and wraps her arms tight around his waist. “Be nice to Q,” he says. “I like him so much, and he's – having a tough time right now.”

“Okay,” she says. “For you.”

They catch up on the last episodes of _The Good Place_ , which Margo likes better than Eliot does, although he admits it has his attention in a whole new way now that he has an anxious philosophy professor of his own, and then _Always Be My Maybe_ , which is as good as people kept saying.

He goes to bed when Margo does and watches the Fester video, fiddling with the brightness levels, and then a few more times just to watch Quentin smile and talk to the cat like a person. Eventually he sends a copy to Quentin and uploads another copy to the Insta account he mostly only uses to follow fashion bloggers.

Quentin responds by texting him a few photos of Fester curled up on Quentin's bed, and one of Fester's nose investigating the phone in extreme close-up.

Eliot listens to the whole original cast album of _Miss Saigon_ , because if you're already in a maudlin mood, why waste it, and then goes to sleep early.

 

He doesn't hear anything more from Quentin for four days.

 

It's whatever, Eliot understands that they're taking things slowly and he understands that he's not entitled to any more of Quentin's time and attention than he feels the need to give. It would be – fine, normally, but Eliot kind of thinks it's _rude as fuck_ to have a conversation with someone about suicide and then immediately drop off the face of the planet. He's not being unreasonable about that, right?

Eliot plays the game for as long as he can, but by Thursday afternoon his unwelcome fantasies about having to identify Quentin's body in the morgue like in a shitty police procedural episode are coming so close together they practically don't stop, and he texts, _Look, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want, but can I at least get proof of life or something?_

Right away, he wishes he hadn't sent it. It's glib and bitchy and it didn't have to be, he could've acted like a decent person and said, _hey, I'm worried about you_ or whatever.

It works, though. A few minutes later he starts getting photos – the marble-trimmed hallway inside what he's pretty sure is one of the campus buildings, then a cramped, dark room with a narrow window and two desks, then a carefully composed shot of a venti Starbucks cup on the desk next to today's paper. Proof of life.

“You're a dick, Coldwater,” he grumbles to his phone, but he's still smiling with relief.

 _Sorry, you have a job?_ he texts back. _I had no idea._

 _Trying to act like I do_ , Quentin responds. _Right now what I have is two sections of Intro to Logic that start in a month and I have to pretend I know how to teach and also a drunk Russian asshole as a dissertation advisor._

 _Your life sounds pretty hard_ , Eliot texts, which is supposed to be clever or something, but as he watches Quentin type and delete for like two entire minutes, he starts to reconsider.

Finally an answer appears: _Some parts work better than others._

Eliot thinks about asking what Quentin's doing tonight.

He thinks about it for a long time.

Finally he puts the phone aside and concentrates on sorting his laundry.

 

Friday night he has to work with Marina, who's a competent bartender but undeniably a shitty person, and who is perpetually ticked off at Eliot because he once cockblocked her by telling Margo she was a shitty person. He actually didn't even think Margo would care; she often doesn't. But for whatever reason, she shut Marina down pretty hard, in the way that Margo sometimes can, and Marina has been taking it out on Eliot for like six months.

Whatever. Eliot is so deeply disinterested in workplace drama. He doesn't even care that much that he's pretty sure Marina steals from their shared tip jar when he's downstairs organizing the beer cave; it's worth a few bucks to him not to have a conversation with Marina about it.

But on Friday when they're making martinis side by side, Marina smiles at him like they're somehow friends and says cheerfully, “You know your boyfriend's here, right?”

“He's not my boyfriend, we're just hanging out,” Eliot says automatically, and then his mind suddenly loops back, because how does _Marina_ even-- “Did he say boyfriend?”

Her friendly smile turns smirky. “No. He just asked for you and looked all wilted when I said you weren't here.”

“I am here.”

“You were downstairs.” Eliot glares at her, and she holds up one placating hand. “Jesus, relax, I told him you'd be back and I comped him a glass of wine. He's over there doing card tricks for drunk bimbos.”

Eliot finishes the drink he's making, closes a couple of tabs, and then throws his towel down. “I'm taking a smoke break,” he announces.

“In the middle of--”

“Take it out of my tips,” he snaps. “Or take it out of what you already took out of my tips, I don't give a shit.” God, Marina sucks.

She is also, as it turns out, extremely literal, at least tonight. Q is sitting at a round table with four or five younger girls, a deck of cards fanned out in front of him, and he's doing that thing where he flips all the cards back and forth with a touch. He must be doing some kind of patter, too, because he's talking with an unusual amount of animation for Quentin, although Eliot can't hear much over the music. The girls are all leaning in toward the table, absolutely enraptured.

“Okay, do you still have your card?” Q asks one of them as Eliot sidles up alongside him and touches his shoulder. He looks up and smiles, the big, sweet smile that Eliot's only seen a few times before. “El,” is all he says, but his voice is rich with warm layers; Eliot hears _you're here_ and _I'm glad_ and _I want you_ and _gorgeous_.

“Hey, there,” Eliot says, trying to say all the same things. “I'm going out back to smoke, wanna come along?”

“Yeah, yes,” Quentin says quickly. “Just one second, okay? Do you still have your card? Show us now.”

One of the girls holds up a card that's been folded into fourths, and when she unfolds it, everyone shrieks. It's the ten of diamonds. Eliot gathers, from their reactions, it didn't start out that way. “I never let go of it!” she insists. “That's _fucking crazy_! Oh my god, that's so cool, how did you do that?”

“Magic,” Quentin says, collecting his cards and pocketing them. “Okay, well – I have to go. Thanks.”

They all want him to stay. The truly insane thing is, he doesn't really seem that aware of it – doesn't seem aware of anything in the world but Eliot.

“I didn't know you could do that,” Eliot says as he leads Q into the service hallway and out the back door.

“Everybody needs a hobby,” Quentin says. “And I was really, really unpopular in high school, so, you know. Filled the time.”

“How good are you?”

Quentin shrugs, obviously trying hard to look modest. “Las Vegas two, Indiana eight,” he says.

They sit side by side on the planter out back and Eliot lights up. “Any other special talents I

should know about?” he asks.

“This feels like a job interview.”

“I'm still kind of mad at you,” Eliot says. “So if I were you, I'd play along.”

Quentin smiles slightly, but ducks his head and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I'm really sorry,” he says. “I didn't think-- I didn't do it on purpose, I just-- I told you. Sometimes I isolate. I didn't really think about how it would feel to you, and I should've.”

“I was actually really worried,” Eliot says.

“I know. I'm sorry.” Eliot takes a long drag and holds the burn in his lungs for longer than usual before he lets it go. “I know I don't have any right to ask you for anything,” Quentin says, “but....”

“But?”

“Can you – put your arm around me?”

Of course Eliot can. Of course he does. Quentin starts to relax against him almost immediately. “How are you feeling now?” Eliot asks.

“Better. Good. I, uh. I can – lasso an elderly, very docile goat.”

That-- Not a lot of things surprise Eliot anymore, it feels like, and yet. “You – come again?”

“My special skills? I can. Do that.”

“No, you fucking can't,” Eliot says. He almost can't even laugh, it's just too – what the fuck?

“I can,” Quentin insists. “I have. Junior cowboy camp.”

So it turns out that Eliot actually can laugh, and they're both laughing then, pressed together warm and sweaty and smoke-hazy in the summer heat. “So what I'm getting here,” Eliot finally manages, “is that you and I are destined to run a big, gay goat farm together someday.”

“Mmm,” Quentin says. “I think it'd be more of a – big, sexually fluid yet still family-friendly goat farm, wouldn't it? But I do have to warn you: I kind of hated junior cowboy camp.”

“You are a ridiculous human being,” Eliot says.

“And yet here you are,” Quentin says, which Eliot can't exactly argue with.

Here he is.

Eliot stubs out the last of his cigarette and tugs Quentin's head down on his shoulder. They watch the stars for a while, or what they can see of the stars through the downtown light pollution. “Do you want to come over when you get off work?” Quentin finally asks softly.

And – Eliot does. Of course he does. It's been almost two weeks since he's been naked with Quentin, and it's goddamn near all he thinks about, other than that police-procedural morgue thing. But.... “Is this just what we're doing now?” Eliot asks. “You just have feelings and brood over them, and then when you want to get laid, you show up here?”

He can feel Quentin flinch. “I-- That's not what I want to do,” he says. “I don't think. I mean, I.... That's not what I – imagined it would be like. But I've never really done a casual relationship before, so maybe – maybe you would know better than I would. How this is supposed to work.”

Okay, that's – fair. “Can I – tell you the truth?” Eliot says, and he doesn't wait for an answer, because he knows by now that's one of the things that Quentin always wants from him. “It's – it's hard to trust you. I think you're...going to figure out that this doesn't really...fit for you. That it's not you who wants to be with me, it's just. The person you wish you were.”

Quentin seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Do you think that because...I usually am only with people I'm in love with, or because – because you're a man?”

That is an excellent question. “A little of both?”

He's surprised to hear humor in Quentin's voice when he says, “I have to tell you, El, I think you really underestimate how much of my lack of experience was not voluntary. I was never anti-hooking up, I just didn't exactly have a waiting list. And I'm trying not to be offended by how you really do seem to believe I'm confused about my sexuality, but I swear to you, I was confused about it for like two weeks when I was twelve and had just discovered illicit _Phantom Menace_ pornography on ff.net, but the next twelve years have been pretty smooth sailing, identity-wise.”

“So you're going to be telling me all about the gross, anatomically impossible fanfic you wrote in middle school, right?” Eliot says.

“Mm-mm, nope,” Quentin says firmly. “We do not know each other well enough yet to exchange Livejournal usernames.”

“Excuse me, I was never on Livejournal.”

“I'm sorry. MySpace.”

“Fuck you,” Eliot says, and Quentin recognizes that for the non-denial that it is and laughs smugly. “Come on,” he wheedles. “I'll forgive you completely if you tell me. Slate wiped clean.”

Quentin hums and turns his head to nuzzle Eliot's neck. “I think you did already,” he says. “Say you'll spend the night tonight, and I'll tell you my username. You can stalk me and make fun of me forever. That's a pretty good payoff for one night, isn't it?”

Eliot should probably negotiate, but.... “Yeah,” he groans, tipping his head to the side to give Quentin's tongue more access. “Yeah, I'll-- I'll be there.”

Quentin runs his fingers into Eliot's hair and gently, very gently, pulls his head down to murmur sexily into his ear, “Chatwin!_at_the_disco.”

For a second, Eliot almost buys it. But. “No,” he says. “Bullshit. Not even you are that much of a nerd. You're lying.”

“You're not sure,” Quentin taunts, and why is _any_ of this hot, for fuck's sake?

Magic, he guesses.

“ _Phantom Menace_ , really?” Eliot asks.

“Uh, Liam Neeson and Ewan McGregor? _Yes_ , really,” Quentin says, which – again. Fair.

He kisses Quentin, and then kisses him some more, and he doesn't even give a damn that they've been out here too long (fuck Marina; he hopes she either quits or finally steals so much that she gets fired), or that they're both getting sweatier, or that he still doesn't believe, deep down, that this is going to last.

“I don't just want to get laid,” Quentin murmurs when they pull apart. “I want to get laid by you. You make me feel....” He shakes his head helplessly. “I just like the way you make me feel.”

“It freaked me out,” Eliot admits. “Seeing you the way you were last time.”

Quentin smiles wryly. “I have bad news: it can get much worse.”

“And now you're just...fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much fine. I'm still – sad. I'm sad because...the Child Services person and I agreed last week that she would just transfer Ted's file to a caseworker in West Lafayette. So they'll look for a foster family here, and that's – that's the right thing to do. I only had him for a few days, and. It was hard. Everybody else was right, it's too much for me to handle on my own. And there's no one to blame but me, and I'm having to give up – hoping for something I wanted, and it's the right thing to do, but it still hurts, and I don't always handle pain well. But today it hurts, and I'm handling it. I have good days, too.”

Good enough, Eliot guesses. What can you ask for, except good days?

He kisses Quentin's cheek before he stands up. “I'll see you later tonight,” he promises, and Quentin smiles like he's never had anything in his life but good days.

 

At two in the morning he's knocking on Quentin's door, and Quentin's already in his t-shirt and boxers when he answers, dragging Eliot inside with greedy hands and pulling him into kisses with the heat of his cock pressed to Eliot's thigh. They leave a trail of Eliot's clothes to the bedroom.

A million people have wanted Eliot, but they vanish when he's with Q. He can't recall a single name or face.

He's so fucked, and he doesn't even care.

He pushes Quentin to his back and starts peeling off his t-shirt, sucking a line up the middle of his body as Eliot bares the skin. He's lightly hairy and warm like he brought the July night inside with him, under his skin. He tastes salty and a little industrial, like ozone and asphalt. He has the most beautiful face, and Eliot cups it between his hands and kisses his mouth over and over.

“Eliot,” he gasps softly against Eliot's lips, against his cheek and his chin and his temple. _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._ Both of them are dripping precome on his boxers, and Eliot tries to pull them down, but he loses the mission when his hand cups Quentin's ass and he feels Quentin's breath catch and the shivers scatter across his skin.

“You want this?” Eliot asks, pressing his fingertips into the cleft of Quentin's ass. “You've been waiting for this?”

Quentin's eyes narrow in the way they always do when Eliot underestimates him, or when he pretends to. “I like being pegged,” he says. Eliot scoffs a little; he can't help it. Quentin nips at his mouth and smiles a narrow smile to match his eyes. “If you're so sure it's different when it's you, then you should prove it.”

Eliot can do that.

He puts Quentin on his knees, legs spread wide and hands crossed against the wall, his forehead resting against them while Eliot licks him until he's out of words and unable to keep asking for more. He bites Quentin's shoulders while he rolls a condom on himself, and keeps biting while he adds more lube. He presses one hand, splayed out wide, over Quentin's chest, holding him steady and reassuring him while he guides himself inside. Quentin whimpers a little at first, but Eliot knows when it shifts; he can feel the tightness release just enough to let him glide deeper in, and Quentin's arm jerks out like he's losing control of his whole body. His hand slaps the wall and skids a few inches down it, lubed up by the sweat on his palm. “That's good, baby, you got it now,” Eliot whispers behind Quentin's ear, and he loves the silken feeling of Quentin's hair grazing his lips.

“More,” Quentin manages to say, and Eliot gives him more – keeps it going, steady and just that much too slow. Even through the condom, Eliot can feel everything, can feel exactly what Quentin is reacting to and what he needs next.

Eliot's not quite petty enough to be thinking about Quentin's ex-girlfriend and how she couldn't do _that_ with her store-bought cock. Well, not petty enough to think about it more than once, anyway. Fleetingly.

He keeps one arm braced under Quentin's arm, his hand over Quentin's chest, but lets the other hand explore down to Quentin's damp groin and the base of his cock. “Oh, god – fuck,” Quentin gasps, letting his head tip back. “Eliot – Eliot, please.”

“You can have anything you want, baby,” he says, and he's going to pretend it sounds smooth like it did in his head, not drunkenly slurred. “Just make me believe you really want it.”

Quentin's head drops forward again, resting on his wrist. “I – I want your big hand on me,” he says breathlessly. “Your big cock in me – El, I want you – make me come, I want you, want you.”

Eliot believes every word.

It's a tough position to maintain near the end, with both of their knees sliding on the sheets, both of them trying to go too fast, too greedy. The practical part of Eliot wants to push Q down so he can help brace with his hands on the edge of the mattress – a headboard would be nice, but apparently that's too much to ask for when you date grad students – but he likes seeing as much of Quentin's face as he can see this way, his flushed cheek and fluttering eyelashes.

Quentin's face when he comes.... It's like it's the only face Eliot's ever known. The only one worth remembering.

They fall in a tangle of limbs, Eliot spooning tightly behind him to finish up, hand on Quentin's hip to pull him back against Eliot's groin while Eliot fucks soft, helpless noises out of him. Eliot groans into Quentin's shoulder when he comes, and it's perfect but there's a pang of loss already. Nothing lasts forever.

Quentin draws his nails down Eliot's forearm and sighs. It's a happy sigh – Eliot thinks. He's fairly sure. He leans over and kisses Quentin's cheek, and then the corner of Quentin's smile.

It's apparently become Eliot's job to get them cleaned up every time, and he decides that he really doesn't mind. He knows he can't fix Q, but he can do – something. This. He can let the boy just enjoy the afterglow in peace, because it really seems like Quentin needs a lot more pleasure in his life.

Eliot doesn't even just say that for selfish reasons.

“You're spending the night, right?” Quentin asks.

“If I'm invited,” Eliot says.

Quentin bats his hand vaguely backwards so it connects with Eliot's arm, which Eliot interprets as _don't be ridiculous, of course you are invited_ , and so he climbs into bed behind Q and curls around him. “I'll warn you,” Quentin says, “Fester starts making very loud, very hungry noises very early in the morning.”

“Oh, well,” Eliot says. “There are always other cats where he came from.”

“Fuck you,” Quentin says comfortably, “don't threaten my cat.”

Eliot kisses the corner of his lips again and murmurs, “I love your smile.”

Quentin picks up Eliot's wrist and draws it to his lips, kisses it and then the base of his thumb and then the hollow of his palm.

There's more that Eliot could say to that, more he wants so badly to say, but. He doesn't.

They're playing this day by day; Eliot understands full well why, and he agrees that it's the right call. And today's been a good day.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you've been a person leaving comments, thank you so, so much for the comments! I'm having some wonky anxiety stuff that's made me fall way behind on answering comments, but I'm hoping to get into that really, really soon. I want to make it clear that I *love* everyone's beautiful, encouraging words, and I'm not at all taking them for granted. The internet is full of Content, and when people not only spend their valuable time reading my stuff, but also responding? That is a Big Deal. So, blanket gratitude for that, and I'll try really hard to send individual responses very soon.

When Eliot wakes up, Quentin is talking, but not to him – he's on the phone, and Eliot can hear the quiet rhythms of a serious conversation as Q moves between the bathroom and the closet. He can tell that he's speaking in a deliberately low voice, either for privacy or to let Eliot sleep longer.

Eliot has just made up his mind to let himself go back to sleep when Fester clambers up to the bed and puts two paws on Eliot's thigh, apparently trying to figure out if Eliot is stable ground for climbing or not. Fester weighs roughly nine hundred pounds. Instinctively, Eliot grabs him by the scruff of the neck, a momma-hold like he used to use to catch barn kittens who'd managed to sneak into the house and chuck them back outside where they belonged. Fester glares at him, betrayed, but Eliot stares him down. “That's right, bitch,” he grumbles when he lets go and Fester huffs off to wedge himself between Quentin's ankles and complain.

Quentin hangs up the phone and crouches down, scratching behind Fester's ears. “What is it, buddy?” he says. “What did he do to you, huh?”

“Just establishing my dominance,” Eliot says on a yawn, rolling from his side onto his back. The sheet settles across his lap, and his half-hard cock twitches in curiosity and hope.

Quentin stands up, and Eliot can't help smirking. He wonders if Quentin has any idea how thirsty he looks when he flicks his eyes up and down Eliot like that; Eliot has become far less sure than he used to be about Quentin's shyness. For someone who claims to have no game at all, Quentin seems to have _suspiciously_ good instincts about just when and how to make that soft, hungry glance followed by the embarrassed little head-duck work for him.

He's either playing the fuck out of Eliot with this ingenue act (which is a sexy idea in its own way), or he's....

God. Just fucking _perfect_.

“Morning,” Quentin says. “Sorry, I tried not to wake you.”

“Make it up to me,” Eliot challenges.

Quentin smiles lazily and comes closer. He leans over to give Eliot a brief kiss before getting onto the bed, then another, slightly less brief, when he crawls half-over Eliot, and he winds up straddling Eliot's thighs on his knees. Eliot pushes up the hem of Quentin's t-shirt and plucks idly around the waistband of his jeans, fingertip tracing the skin along Quentin's side. “Last night was amazing,” Quentin says, and then for some goddamn reason, he frowns. “I mean – for me, at least. I don't know--”

Eliot lets his hand curl tighter around Quentin's waist. “You gonna write a paper about it?” Eliot taunts. “Or are you gonna come down here and do something interesting?”

“Actually, what if I want to stay here and, uh. Establish my dominance?”

He can't help but laugh at that. “Oh, baby,” he says, sliding both hands around to cup the small of Quentin's back. “Do you really?”

Quentin tries and fails to suppress a smile. “Not – not really,” he says, letting his spine undulate snakily while Eliot runs a gentle nail underneath his waistband and in a circle on Quentin's skin. “I mean, I'm not – opposed, but. I like it when you....”

He seems stuck, so Eliot helps out. “Do whatever I want to you?” Quentin's pupils go wider and his jaw seems to twitch a little. Eliot moves his hands, wrapping both of them around Quentin's wrists. He doesn't do anything with Quentin's hands; he doesn't have to do anything with them to prove that he could. “Is that what you were going to say?” There are no words at all left in Quentin, but he does manage to shake his head, and Eliot smiles wider. “No? You weren't going to say, _I like it when you take me, Eliot_?”

Quentin can't stop looking at the shape of Eliot's cock, high and proud under the sheet now. But god love him, he still manages to shake his head in denial, then look up to Eliot's face with a slightly arched eyebrow, waiting for Eliot's next move.

Eliot lets go of Quentin's wrists and tucks his left hand behind his head. The right hand he slides into Quentin's hair, and he grips like he's handling a stubborn kitten – which isn't that far from the truth, come to think of it. “Move the sheet,” he says, and he knows that if Quentin does it....

He does. Sweet boy.

“Now,” Eliot drawls out, letting his shoulders roll to find a comfortable angle, letting his toes and his ankles flex, taking his sweet time. “Suck me.”

He does that, too, and he's not at all taking his time. Eliot gives him all the liberty in the world to explore, to learn by doing. He only keeps his hand in Quentin's hair to reward him with firm, steady pulls when Q is doing something right. When Eliot needs something different, he doesn't push or pull Quentin into it, because he doesn't need to; Quentin is perfectly responsive to the barest hint of a needy, restless murmur, switching up his angle and his pressure until he gets the release of Eliot's sigh and the grounding clench of Eliot's fist.

“Stop,” Eliot manages to gasp just before he loses all decency and responsibility. “Stop – Q, don't, not bare.” Quentin stops, but he doesn't really seem to grasp why. Rather than taking the time to explain, Eliot just catches hold of Q's hand, lapping their fingers together, and starts to stroke himself, dragging Quentin's hand along for the ride. After a couple of confused seconds, Quentin's back on board, and he more than contributes his share.

When Eliot comes all over his own stomach, he groans and closes his eyes, so he doesn't get much warning before he can feel the shift of the mattress, and Q's lips light against his forehead. “I think you're so beautiful,” Quentin whispers.

Eliot smiles a little. “You've mentioned.”

“I hope I'm not boring you.”

“No, you can keep talking about how fuckable I am,” Eliot allows graciously.

“I said beautiful. Not the same thing. Although you are – both. You happen to be, coincidentally.... Both.” Not until Quentin kisses his lips does Eliot realize that he's smiling much more than a little.

They both are. That's nice.

He tries to get his arms up around Quentin, but Quentin slithers loose. “I wish,” he sighs, “but I have to go.”

“Oh,” Eliot says, pushing himself up to his elbows. “Without--?”

“I'll be okay,” Quentin says. “But you're sweet.” Eliot doesn't quite know what to do with that. He should probably argue, right? Or is it allowable to just – wait this out, until Quentin figures out for himself that Eliot is pretty much anything in the world but that.

Eliot is a good actor, but he doesn't do porn, and he doesn't do _sweet_. You can't just give away....

Or can you? If your audience is a – friend, is that – different? Different rules? Damned if Eliot knows.

Eliot gets out of Quentin's bed without making a mess of his sheets and shuts himself in the bathroom to wash up. Quentin is talking to him from outside the door, but Eliot is deep in a post-coital brainfog, and he doesn't really catch the muffled details. He runs his hands under cold water and slicks them through his hair, which is a fucking mess, but he guesses you can only be so embarrassed on a walk of shame across the hall.

He opens the door, and Quentin is standing right there, his arms full of Eliot's clothes. His silver cigarette case is balanced on top of the pile; it must have fallen out of the inner pocket of his vest at some point. Eliot scoops his arms under the pile and nods to the cigarette case. “Mind holding that for me while I get dressed? I don't have a pocket for it.”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” Quentin says.

Quentin sits on the edge of his bed, turning the case over in his hands while Eliot gets dressed in the doorway of the bathroom. “It's really pretty,” Quentin says. “Are these your initials?”

“Who else's would they be?”

“I mean, it could be an antique or something.”

“It's mine.”

“What's the S stand for?”

“Spectacular,” Eliot says, and Quentin chuckles softly.

Eliot is still in the process of buttoning his shirt when he crosses the room to stand between Quentin's legs. Quentin loops his free arm around Eliot's waist and leans against his torso with a sigh. Eliot toys with Quentin's hair, watching the strands slip between his fingers. “They give you cancer,” Quentin says.

“I'm aware.”

He can feel the corner of Quentin's mouth against his skin, the shape of a half-smile. “There are easier ways to die,” he says wistfully, like he's thinking of an old friend he's lost touch with. Something about the intimacy of the words on Quentin's lips – _ways to die_ – raises the hairs on the back of Eliot's neck.

Eliot steps away, carrying on with buttoning his shirt. “You want me to quit?” he asks carelessly.

“I – no, I didn't mean-- “

“It's fine, I've been meaning to.” He hasn't. But whatever. “You keep that.”

“El, it's yours,” Quentin says, holding the case out toward him.

“It _was_ mine, before I gave it to you. Some guy I was fucking gave it to me for my birthday, I don't even remember his name. It's not like an heirloom or anything.”

Quentin's mouth twists a little at that. “That doesn't make me want it more.”

“But I don't need it, because I don't smoke,” Eliot teases gently.

And someday Q will find it in a drawer or a box and he'll say to whoever's there with him, _Some guy I was fucking gave it to me, I think it was like a symbolic point about choosing to live or something, what was his name? Started with an E._

Someday. Someday. Not today. Today Quentin damn well knows who he is. So there's that.

They try to kiss goodbye in the hall, but they find that they can't stop, so it's not goodbye after all, not quite yet. “How did I find you?” Quentin asks against Eliot's neck, mouth drifting under Eliot's jaw, fingers in Eliot's hair. “How did you _literally_ _show up at my door_?”

“You're staying in Terre Haute?” Eliot asks.

“No, just picking up Ted and coming right back.”

“Want me to come over on Sunday and lose a chess game to a five-year-old?”

Quentin's fingers tighten at the shoulders of Eliot's shirt. “I want that so much,” he says intently.

“Okay,” Eliot says, putting a soft kiss at Quentin's hairline. “I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

 

Margo didn't spend the night at their place either, it seems, so after a ninety-minute disco nap, Eliot showers and changes and is only slightly fashionably late to rendezvous at their usual brunch place a few blocks away.

Eliot sits beside her on the steps outside. Her hair is pinned up messily and wrapped in a scarf, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses and her mouth leaving red stains on her cigarette, and Eliot wants to watch a melodramatic Italian movie from the mid-60s about her tragic and dissolute life. “How was your evening?” he asks. “Do anyone fun?”

She breathes out a plume of smoke and says, “Maybe. You?”

He thinks about being evasive. He thinks about reaching over and stealing that cigarette directly out of her hand. “You know,” he says, fussing with the fold in his cuffs just for something to do. “The usual.”

Margo's face turns slightly toward him, one eyebrow just cresting the rim of her glasses. “So he's the usual now, is he?” Eliot shrugs. “Well. Good for you. No, I really mean it,” she adds when she catches the look he's giving her. “It's what you wanted, isn't it?”

“Whatever,” Eliot mutters, lack of sleep and nicotine cravings catching up with him and making him cranky. “God, is he all we can ever talk about anymore? I stopped by after work and I fucked him – boring, see? Tell me a good story.”

She smiles a little and starts in on far better Margo stories – Tinder lunacy and dancefloor intrigue and afterparties and just a soupçon of petty theft, and if he suspects she's weaving a few weeks' worth of events into one epic Friday night for the sheer dramatic value, well, nobody loves Margo Hanson _in spite of_ her sense of style, only for it.

He almost feels like himself again during brunch, muscle memory taking over like it does every time he and Margo have all the time in the world to dance. She prods and teases and embellishes. He mocks and quips and lounges.

She's Margo. She's never been anyone else.

He's Eliot. He plays eight shows a week with no understudy. He knows this role like he knows his own body – better, probably. He knows this role like it's the one thing he's ever loved that didn't break his heart.

On the way out the door, he drapes his left arm around Margo's waist and reaches instinctively for the inside pocket on his vest. Margo notices the way he stops and scowls, and she says, “I have one, you need it?”

Eliot supposes that's the question, isn't it? “I'm – cutting back,” he says. “I just forgot for a second.”

“Cutting back,” she repeats. “Oh, baby.”

“Come on, it's not a big deal,” he says. “Just being healthier.”

“I forget what a huge pussy you are when you're smitten,” she says. “Does he not like the taste? Or, oh my god, are you trying to _be a good role model_ for--”

“I'm begging you,” he says. “I haven't smoked in fifteen hours and it sucks. Please, please give it a rest. One day. I _put you through rehab_ , and all I'm asking in return is twenty-four hours before you give me a lifetime of shit over quitting for a guy. I will accept the lifetime of shit without complaint, just _later_ , please.”

Margo puts her head against his arm as they stand in the parking lot by her car. “We don't change for boys,” she reminds him. “Didn't we decide that? We don't care what they think of us.”

There's a reason that this is different, but Eliot isn't sure how to articulate it. He's not changing _for_ Quentin, even if – maybe he is – changing _because of_ him. It's different. He kisses the top of Margo's head and says, “If he'd asked me to quit, I would've told him to go fuck himself. He didn't. It was my idea.”

“Why, so you can grow old with him?” Margo says, and to anyone else it might sound like the same light, mocking tone she often uses, but Eliot can feel the edge of it against his skin, and it's only light like the finest, thinnest sheet of glass. Margo's voice is brittle and one sharp knock away from an explosion of deadly shards.

“Maybe I want to grow old,” Eliot says softly, cautiously. “Maybe I want us all to.”

Margo fishes her sunglasses out of her purse and slides them on. “Want a ride home?”

“I don't mind walking,” he says. “All part of my new, excruciatingly healthy lifestyle.”

“God, he is _not_ cute enough to justify a _lifestyle_ ,” she says scornfully, but she smiles a little as she says it, like she's indulging Eliot's bad taste out of sheer, partisan fondness.

That's probably not far from the truth.

 

The texts start popping up while Eliot is in the shower on Sunday morning, and by the time he gets out, Margo is yelling at him to look at his phone. He sits down on his bed, wet and naked and not very well-rested, having only dropped from restless zoning-out into real sleep a couple of hours earlier. He doesn't even know why he's awake now, except that he's starving and it smells like Margo is scrambling eggs in the other room.

It's a text chain, and Margo is also on it. _Hi_ , the first one says, _this is Ted Coldwater. Thank you for letting us watch tv at your house last week. You were nice hosts!_

_Do you want to come over and have dinner tonight with my dad and me?_

_We're making pizza. What do you like on your pizza?_

“Are you going to this?” he yells through the door at Margo.

“I don't know what to wear,” she calls back, which sounds like a yes to Eliot.

_We usually get pepperoni and mushrooms, but Margo likes sausage, too_ , he types while he calls out, “Wear the polka dots with the belt.”  _What time should we come?_

“I changed my mind about that one, it's too  _Pretty Woman_ at the polo game.”

“He's five years old, he's never seen  _Pretty Woman_ ,” Eliot reminds her. “Wear it, it's cute.”

They have almost eight whole hours to coordinate outfits and they still fight before they leave the house, because Margo all of a fucking sudden decides she wants to change into orange, and orange looks great on Margo, but it's going to be a whole mess next to Eliot's outfit, which is an ivory suit with a silk shirt in a bold, bronzey pattern. “So you can change, too,” she says. “You own more shirts than I do,  _pick one_ .”

“ _I did pick one_ ,” he says. “I picked this one, and we're going to be late. You realize it's like an obvious insult to be late when the travel time is nine seconds, right? Why can't you just commit to something?”

“Why can't you just shove it up your ass?” she says, but he thinks he might have won the argument anyway, because she changes her shoes but not her dress and they're not late after all.

There's a moment of insanity when Ted opens the door for them, when he's grabbing Margo by the hand and pulling her through the doorway talking loudly about pizza, and Eliot's trying to block Fester's escape with a strategically placed leg, and an oven timer is going off, and nobody knows what's going on. Quentin is wearing a Tardis apron and a manbun, either of which would be unappealing individually, but together it's just so infinitely worse, but he's smiling as he gives Margo a one-armed, barely-touching acquaintance hug, and he smiles even more as he steps into Eliot's space to kiss him. “Hey,” he protests when Eliot pulls the tie out of his hair.

“I have standards,” Eliot says, running his fingers through Quentin's hair to drape it back to his own satisfaction.

“You kiss Eliot a lot,” Ted announces, sounding a little suspicious about the whole thing. Eliot wouldn't even say they do it  _a lot_ , but now that he thinks about it, Ted's probably never seen a caretaker kiss anyone at all, so maybe two or three times does seem like a lot.

“Well,” Quentin says, “I – uh, I do that because – Eliot likes it. And it's okay to kiss someone hello as long as you know for sure that they want you to.”

“Can we take the lid off the fruit now? You said when they got here.”

“Yeah, of course,” Quentin says. Ted dashes for the refrigerator, and Quentin gives the adults in the room a half-shrug and a vague gesture with his hand that implies,  _I don't know what I'm doing, but I guess that was okay?_ Eliot doesn't know anything about parenting, but he nods wisely and it seems to relax Q.

They made the pizzas from scratch, crust and all; one is pepperoni and mushroom, the other pepperoni and sausage, and Ted is bursting with pride over both of them, so they all have to take pictures, and they have to hear in great detail, though in no particular order, all the steps required to make pizza from scratch. It's good, actually; Quentin owns one of those round stones specifically for baking pizza on, so Eliot guesses it's not his first rodeo. There aren't a lot of appliances on Quentin's countertops, so Eliot had kind of assumed he didn't cook, but maybe that was a leap of logic.

When he asks, Quentin shrugs and says, “I guess a little. Stir-fry, pancakes. That type of thing.”

“Oh, you haven't made him breakfast yet?” Margo says slyly. “Eliot, why don't you ever stay for breakfast?”

“Because it's rude to smoke at someone else's house,” Eliot says. “I guess now I can stay later.”

“Yeah, how's that going?” Quentin asks.

It sucks, but it sucks managably. “Great,” Eliot says. “I feel great. Soon I'll be jogging with Margo every morning.”

Margo reaches over and pats his wrist. “You'd slow me down.”

“I'm kidding,” he spells out. “I'm not fucking  _jogging_ .”

Ted leans closer to Quentin and says in what he probably thinks is a whisper, “Eliot said a bad word.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, biting his lip a little to keep from smiling. “Well, I'm not Eliot's dad, so I don't really get to tell him what kind of words he's allowed to say.”

“I'll be good,” Eliot promises.

They have fruit with the pizza, and fudgecicles for dessert, and Eliot feels both slightly overdressed and glad that he is, because wearing a nice suit elevates the occasion, and Eliot is still trying to figure out ways to balance  _taking things slow_ with  _friends with benefits_ with  _this is a date, we are dating_ . It also gets him out of helping with the dishes; he carries them all to the sink and turns on the water to rinse them, and Q is right beside him taking the stack out of his hand and murmuring, “Just leave them, I don't want to mess your suit up.”

“I'm not too pretty to be helpful,” Eliot says.

“You're helpful,” Quentin affirms. “You're the right amount of pretty and helpful both, but still, just leave them. Were you serious when you said you wanted to play chess?”

“I was serious when I said I was  _willing_ to play chess,” Eliot says, dropping a kiss on Quentin's forehead.

“Close enough,” Quentin says.

Eliot only sort of remembers how to play chess, but they set the board up on the coffee table, and he sits on the couch with Margo perched on his lap to whisper instructions in his ear, and Quentin sits on the floor with Ted in the circle of his crossed legs. The pretense of coaching falls away pretty quickly, and Eliot and Ted are just moving things where they're told while Margo and Quentin get increasingly sharp-eyed and intent on the game. Eliot doesn't really mind; they're both extremely cute when they're being competitive. Ted doesn't seem to mind, either, just pleased to be so close to the center of all the action and adult attention.

At one point Eliot thinks he almost understands what's going on, and he asks Margo, “Are we winning?”

“Yes,” Margo says.

“No,” Quentin says, and makes a move that sends Margo's eyebrow up and makes her peer more intently at the board.

“Huh,” she says begrudgingly. “Okay. That's not going to save you, though.”

Quentin is starting to look less competitive and more confident. That's an even better look on him. “Wanna bet?”

“Oh,  _sorry_ ,” she says, “I am no longer allowed to gamble Eliot away.”

“Yeah, let's not tell that story during family hour, okay?” Eliot says.

“Mmm,” Quentin agrees, but he glances up and makes eye contact with Eliot in a way that thoroughly transforms his gentle, “Later, then” into something.... Well. It sure is something.

Eliot wins the chess game – Margo wins the chess game, really, and she reaches across the board to offer her hand for Ted to shake. “Good game,” she says seriously.

He doesn't want to let go of her hand. “Come on, come see my room,” he demands.

“Hey, you know what?” Quentin says. “Why don't you brush your teeth and put your pajamas on, and when you're ready for bed, then Margo can see your room, okay?”

Ted launches himself toward the bathroom, and Quentin laughs a little as he puts all the chess pieces back on the board. “He's very impressed with you,” Quentin tells Margo.

“They usually are,” she says breezily, leaning back against Eliot's shoulder.

The dishes are still bugging Eliot, so when Margo and Quentin go to get the kid all tucked in or whatever, he sneaks back to the kitchen and runs a sink full of soapy water so they can at least soak. When he rejoins Quentin in the doorway of Ted's room, Margo is half-reclined on the bed with the child and a teddy bear tucked under her arm. “Look, he's got a little Honeyclaw!” she says. To Eliot's blank look, she picks up the bear's arm and waves it at him. “See, he's got the gold heart-mark right here? You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?”

“Should I?” he asks.

“He's the Senechal of Castle Whitespire?” she says in the exact same tone that a normal person would say,  _He's the CEO of Facebook?_ “I can't believe you don't know this, what planet are you from?”

“I'm a little surprised that you do,” Quentin says, looking at Margo like she's added another Coldwater to the rolls of her fan club.

“Please,” she says, tossing her hair back. “You happen to be speaking to the former Fillorian ambassador to the Outer Islands.”

“Am I really?” Quentin says with a smile. “I had no idea.”

“I had a crown and a jeweled eyepatch.”

“Is that standard for ambassadors?” Eliot asks.

“They may have also made me a Pirate Queen. Are you jerks laughing at me? I was  _eight_ .”

“Trust me, I'm in no position to do that,” Quentin says. “And I wouldn't anyway, I – like it. It makes you seem a little more normal. Less Hollywood,” he tries to clarify.

Margo smiles, and it's her softest smile. Eliot is not unfamiliar with it, but she usually keeps it tucked safely in the privacy of her own home. She strokes Ted's curls back with her nails and says, “Does your dad read  _Fillory_ to you?”

“He said we could start when I turn six,” Ted says. “That's August 16, my birthday.”

“That's soon. Well, maybe I could come over and listen to parts of it with you, would that be okay?” 

Ted's eyes go hilariously round and he nods. “Dad, can I show Margo the book?”

“Sure,” Quentin says, reaching directly for a green hardback book at the top of Ted's bookshelf. “This copy is pretty worn,” he explains for the benefit of his guests, “so I don't really let Ted play with it. I'll get him his own copy if he likes it, but – this is the one my dad bought me when I was a kid, so. It's been a lot of places.”

“Junior cowboy camp?” Eliot suggests.

“Among others, yes,” Quentin chuckles.

Margo makes appropriately impressed noises as she touches the embossed binding and flips to the illustrated plate in the front. “My dad's dad was my grandfather,” Ted explains. “I don't remember him, he died when I was a baby, but his name was Ted, too.” Margo nods absently, still looking at the book, but her attention swivels to him when he says, “My Nana is going to die, too.”

It's a terrible,  _impossible_ thing to respond to; there's no response in the world that could do the job. Margo doesn't even blink. “I'm sorry, baby,” she says. “I had a Nani, too, and she was so nice to me. I was really sad when she died.”

Ted nods. “Where did you live after she died?”

“With my parents,” Margo says. “But my parents kind of sucked. They definitely didn't play games with me or read to me like your dad does.”

“Miss Eliza says I'm going to live with a different family,” Ted says. “But I don't know who they are. Nobody will tell me.”

“Teddy, we don't know, either,” Quentin says. “You're going to know as soon as Miss Eliza and the people who work at her office find the perfect family, okay? I promise nobody's going to keep it a secret from you.”

“Why can't I live here? I like it here.”

In the absence of  _literally anything_ he can do to help, Eliot puts a hand out and touches the small of Quentin's back. Eliot can feel the way his whole body is strung tight, even if he couldn't see it in the way Quentin hunches in on himself, fingers twisting in the sleeve of his shirt. “I know you do, buddy,” Quentin says. “And I like having you here. But you're going to move closer, and that means you can visit a lot more, without a long car trip. We'll see each other a lot, okay?” It doesn't seem like it's okay with much of anyone, but Ted doesn't argue.

There's a certain level of helplessness that you just get used to, Eliot knows, when you grow up in the shadow of hospitals and tears and too much smothering comfort that never brings any relief. He doesn't remember his mother that well, but he remembers her coffin, and his father's big hand tugging him by the wrist toward the front of the church to look at it. He remembers that he didn't cry much, not then and not after. He remembers people calling him  _brave boy_ , but he wasn't brave at all, he just knew that what he wanted didn't matter, so it was easiest just to – be small and unobtrusive, to go where he was pulled and do what he was told, to do and feel and be...whatever.

It's funny how the same thing that made him a  _brave boy_ when he was three years old made him weak when he was older, made him a target. It took him absolutely ages for Eliot to figure out that if you just go limp and give them what they want, it usually makes things way worse. That was the one useful thing his father ever tried to teach him, and he just refused to learn.

All around Eliot, there are goodnights and kisses and teddy bears and glasses of water and something that passes for cozy and normal, but it's all theater, he knows. It's all just a bunch of people with fucked-up childhoods desperately pretending that they're in charge, that they're fixing something somehow, but when the light goes out, Eliot knows just like they all know that people get sick and people get sad and people get left behind and people get punished for things they never even did wrong.

Eliot plays his part, because there's no real alternative. Story of his life, really. A million people's story.

“Hey,” Quentin says softly when they all back out of Ted's room and shut the door. He strokes over Eliot's arm and cocks his head, looking up at Eliot with a frown. “Are you okay? You seem – quiet.”

“I'm okay. You?”

Quentin shrugs. “You two can stay for a drink, can't you?”

They stay for more than one drink. Quentin and Margo get half a glass of wine in them and start in on Fillory; Eliot doesn't understand more than a little bit (he read the first one in school, but that was over fifteen years ago, and he gathers that the bear doesn't even show up until book two), but he doesn't mind playing third wheel for a while – not when the two of them are so adorably animated.

For a while. It does wear thin by the time the bottle is empty; Eliot volunteers to open a second one, and that gives him an excuse to be up off the couch, so he goes ahead and washes the dishes while they talk about the ethics of sentient sailboats or whatever weirdness. He might have spoken too soon about being on top of the whole nicotine craving thing, because between that and the wine, he's sprouted a headache, and it's easy to feel – ignored or whatever, even though he isn't doing anything to solve the problem. He's wallowing. It's stupid and childish, and he wants a fucking cigarette, and his whole look right now is, like, not hot. He swears under his breath as he goes through his pockets for the third time, only able to find one of the two cufflinks he just took off, where the fuck could the other one have gone in the last ten minutes?

_It's not fair_ , he thinks, and he doesn't even know what  _it_ is. Just – fuck. All of it. Whatever.

But he knows how to act like a human being, at least, so he goes back to the couch and sits down, angled to the side, and Quentin leans back against him like it's nothing, like it's normal, and. That helps. Quentin is still gesturing lazily in the air with his wine glass, and Eliot drapes an arm over his chest and feels, more than hears, Quentin lose his train of thought with a stutter and a roundabout turn into repeating himself. Eliot kisses his temple lightly, and Quentin winds down completely with a sigh that's almost a purr.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “We're really leaving you out, aren't we? I just never really get to do this anymore, except when Julia visits.”

“What about the internet?” Eliot says. “I thought that was your kind's natural habitat.”

“Do not let him tease you,” Margo orders Quentin. “Eliot is his own special breed of nerd.”

“I protest,” Eliot says lazily.

“Do you want to know how I met him?”

“God, yes,” Quentin says.

Eliot knows the story she plans to tell, and he  _protests_ . “We met at a  _party_ ,” he says. “ _Your_ party.”

Margo waves that thought away. “Okay, technically we were introduced at one of my parties. He turned up at a lot of them; he had a tendency to fuck my friends. So, like, I knew who he was, but we never really talked or anything. Then I went with this guy to a concert in Silverlake, and we started hitting the bars after--”

“It was a job!” Eliot protests. “I was trying to earn a living, so fucking sue me.”

“--and who should we discover at one in the morning but Eliot, on stage, fronting a Tears For Fears cover band.”

“It was  _not my band_ ,” Eliot says. “I was filling in for a friend, in exchange for  _money to live_ , how long am I going to be punished for this?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Margo says affectionately. “You loved every second of it.” She's not wrong. “The guy I came with sucked, so we ditched him. We went to every bar in Silverlake, one after another until sunrise, talking about music, and he was so cute and intense and dorky, and then we just...kept talking forever.”

Quentin adjusts his head so he's looking up at Eliot and says, “So you weren't kidding about that passion for New Wave, huh?”

“Oh, Eliot is well known for his  _passions_ ,” Margo says. “Oh my god, El, he  _blushes_ . I love that for you.”

“Leave him alone, Bambi,” Eliot says mildly, although he doesn't hate the way that Quentin tries to hide the evidence by turning his cheek against Eliot's chest.

“Mmm,” she says. “I don't know if that's going to be an option. We've kinda  _bonded_ now.”

She takes the mostly empty glass from Quentin's hand and places it alongside her empty one on the coffee table. She tips forward on her knees, bracing one hand on the back of the couch and one on Eliot's thigh. She comes in slow, slow, slow, and Eliot still doesn't have time – there's not enough time in the world for him to process at the speed his brain is moving right now. Quentin makes one small sound, surprise or uncertainty or longing, Eliot can't tell, and then there's no sound in the room except the soft, wet sound of Margo's mouth moving against Quentin's, and the thunder of Eliot's heartbeat in his ears.

Margo hikes her skirt up to give herself room to move, and she plants one knee firmly between Quentin's legs and wraps her other leg around both of them. Eliot doesn't even really have to move, just let his hand turn where it is and he's cradling her smooth thigh in his palm. He tips his forehead against the back of Quentin's head, struggling to focus on anything through the currents of heat spiking through his body – desire settling down in his groin, fury lighting up his throbbing head.

Eliot doesn't even realize they've stopped kissing until he hears Quentin's wavering voice say, “I – what are we...?”

“You've never done this, baby?” Margo croons. “It's okay, we have. Just leave everything to us.”

“Eliot,” he says softly, and Eliot's not sure if it's meant to be a question or a statement or a request, so he can't adequately respond. He lowers his head, his lips searching out the pulse point on the side of Quentin's neck, and Quentin bends easily to give him more access. Eliot's hand keeps sliding up Margo's leg, under her skirt, settling over the silk covering her hip, but Quentin doesn't seem to have any idea at all what to do with his hands until Margo takes one of them and guides it to cup the outside of her breast. She stretches her arm until it's looped around both of them, her fingernails scraping up into Eliot's hair, over his scalp, and Eliot shudders and sucks harder at the join of Quentin's neck.

He's not sure what breaks the spell. It should've been Quentin's voice, his name on Quentin's lips, but that moment passes, and another, and another, until suddenly Eliot's brain hits the ground like it's been dropped from a great height. Margo and Quentin are kissing, wet and intense and breathy, and Eliot's cock is pressed against Quentin's back and his hand is for some reason wrapped up in Margo's hair, and he fucking  _wants_ this, which for some reason is the exact reason that he--

Could kill Margo. He could absolutely fucking  _murder_ her right now.

What he has to do first, though, is get himself out of this situation. He's fairly well pinned, though, so all he can really do is push on Quentin's arms and lies with as much breezy confidence as he can summon, “Okay, kids, I think we're done here. I'm not really feeling it tonight.”

Margo pulls back and meets his eyes. “You're – not really feeling it?” she repeats, melodic and dangerous. “Do you mind telling me what the fuck that means?”

“I have a headache,” he says with as little expression in his voice as humanly possible.

That part even just so happens to be true.

Quentin twists around to get a better look at his face. “Eliot?” he says uncertainly. Eliot squeezes Quentin's waist lightly, and hopefully reassuringly.

“Okay, then,” Margo says with brittle good cheer, climbing to her feet. “Let's get you home, then, sweetness. Since you're not feeling well.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says shortly. “Let's do that.”

Quentin follows them to the door, looking rumpled and befuddled, but trying to go along with Margo's pretense of normalcy. His hand is wrapped around Eliot's wrist, and he doesn't even let go when Margo gives him a quick hug and an air-kiss, thanking him again for the lovely evening.

“Go on,” Eliot tells her when she opens the door. “I'll be home in a minute.”

She looks at him for a moment with narrowed eyes, then throws her hair back and glides out the door, carrying her shoes in her hand.

“El,” Quentin says a little desperately when she's gone, catching Eliot's forearm underneath his unpinned cuff, holding onto him with both hands now. “I didn't – I'm sorry-- “

“Why are you sorry?” Eliot says. “Because you were attracted to Margo? She's attractive.”

“Okay, but--”

“And I'm not your boyfriend.” Quentin's jaw snaps shut on whatever he was going to say. He takes a half-step back, his fingers going slack around Eliot's hand and arm, but not quite letting go. “Hey,” Eliot says gently, reaching out to tuck back Quentin's hair. “You didn't do anything wrong, okay?”

“I just – I thought this must be – something you two had planned out, or, or at least talked about. I should've checked – I shouldn't have assumed anything. I would've known you weren't into it if--”

“You're fine,” Eliot promises him, leaning forward to brush a kiss over his cheekbone. “We're fine.” Quentin nods and finally lets him go.

The nine second trip across the hall takes longer than that. Eliot isn't in a hurry. It's going to take a lot longer than nine seconds – a lot longer than Eliot has to sort out the cacophony in his head.

When he lets himself in the front door, he's looking straight on at Margo, leaning against their breakfast bar with her arms crossed in front of her. “ _You_ are a  _bitch_ ,” he says, flinging his keys into the dish by the door. It wasn't quite what he had planned for his opening remarks, but it'll do.

“Yeah? Well, it's funny, that wasn't what you said  _any other time_ I've ever done that, so what, you can just change the rules whenever you want, and I'm the bitch because I'm not fucking  _psychic_ ?”

“He's different and you know it!”

“He's not different, you jackass,  _you are_ ! Don't put this off on Quentin, I like Quentin. Quentin isn't fucking us up right now,  _you are_ .”

That – feels true, but he's not interested in reality. He's interested in twelve cigarettes and a bottle of gin and maybe setting something on fucking fire. “You said you were happy for me. You said you wanted this.”

“I'm happy that you like him. I know you think I'm lying, but I'm not. I did want you to meet someone, I just didn't know you were going to fall the fuck apart the minute you did!”

“How am I falling apart? What are you even talking about?”

“Are you kidding me? Look at you! You're swanning around on these fucking popsicle dates in the park, you mope when he doesn't call, you quit smoking--”

“Oh, holy shit, is this about the fucking smoking?”

“--you're drinking his wine and you hate wine, you're cleaning his goddamn kitchen--”

“I was being nice!”

“You're not nice! And you're not even  _being_ nice, you're being a sniveling fucking coward, because you think he's this upstanding citizen with his cute kid and his Ivy League degree, and you're afraid he doesn't want you – the  _actual you_ . That you're not good enough for him because you don't read books and you're low-key drunk basically every night of your life and you love railing dudes while they eat me out. If you're not good enough for him the way you are, then  _fuck him_ .”

Which is easy for Margo to say, he guesses. She's never felt – she doesn't know what any of this is like. He digs his fingernails into the heels of his hands and denies himself permission to say exactly that. “Maybe I want to be better,” he says tightly. “Is that somehow against your moral code? You think that makes me a coward?”

“I think it makes you an idiot,” she snaps. “You keep doing this, you can call it self-improvement, but it's bullshit. You tried to be what your father wanted, you tried to be what Mike wanted--”

“Quentin is nothing like either--”

“ _This isn't about Quentin!_ This is about you being so fucking needy that you'll let a guy make you over just so he'll call you a good boy, like it doesn't matter that you're already  _fucking amazing_ , like it's never enough when I tell you you're perfect the way you are, even though I'm supposedly the grand love of your life or whatever the hell you tell yourself you're doing with me. If this thing between us is so fucking real, why does it never count when  _I_ tell you I love you, why does it have to come from some guy who barely knows you?”

“Because it's different,” he says.

It just. Is different. It's not his fault that Margo doesn't understand – can't really understand.

But while that answer is technically true, he can admit that it doesn't give Margo much to wrap her head around. She stands there for what feels like a long time. “I'm going to bed,” she finally says. “Sorry I made you look slutty in front of Prince Charming.”

“That's not why....” he starts to say. He stops because she's walking away. He stops because she's definitely not listening.

He stops because...he's not sure he's telling the truth.

Eliot doesn't think he'll ever get to sleep that night, his body and brain still vibrating like a gong with confused arousal and aimless anger and the low-key panic that tends to come right along with standing at the gaping edge of his bottomless, fucked-up pit of fear. Because that's the answer, isn't it? Fear is always the answer, and Margo's right, he is a coward. Quentin is good and kind and smart and so damn open, and Quentin is  _potential_ . Quentin's a black box: he could be something real, something that Eliot wants so much he aches with it, or he could be a smashed-open heart. Quentin's not Eliot's boyfriend, but he  _could_ be. Quentin doesn't love Eliot, but he  _might_ .

It's the uncertainty that's hard to handle. Eliot would rather Quentin just broke his bones. At least then you can pick up and move on. How do people cope with how you have to – just wait around and see what happens?

The door to his bedroom creaks open at some godawful hour of the morning, while Eliot is hazily not-sleeping, while Eliot is pretty sure he'll never settle enough to sleep again. It's Margo. Obviously it's Margo. She leans in the doorway, the shadow of her body visible through her silk nightgown, and she says, “You know I do love you.”

“I know,” he says.

“You know, I was in rehab for eight weeks,” she says, as if he actually doesn't know this. As if it wasn't one of the defining experiences of his fucking life. “And I wasn't allowed to have visitors for the first week, but then after that, there were visiting hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday--”

“I know,” Eliot says. “I remember.”

“So that's seven weeks,” she continues. “And you were there every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Twenty-one times, you came to see me. And I would walk into this – shitty room with furniture they probably bought from, like, a condemned Howard Johnson, and I looked like absolute shit, and you.... You were always there with a stupid bunch of flowers, and you would...look up at me with this. With this look like you were meeting Beyonce or something. Like seeing me just...made you so happy. And I – got it, you know? I didn't before that. I said I did, but I didn't really. I didn't get what you meant, what people meant – what they mean when they talk about love, but that's what it means. You watched me lose complete control over my life, you watched me fall apart – and I was out of money and I lost all my friends and I wasn't strong or beautiful or important anymore, and you didn't. You didn't see any of that. You just saw me. Twenty-one times, on twenty-one of the worst days of my life. You never skipped a single one, and not because I had anything left to give you. Just to see me.”

“You would have done the same for me,” Eliot says.

He's confused about a lot of things, but not about that.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I would have. Can I – can I come in?”

Eliot moves the blankets for her, and she bounds across the floor and into bed. Eliot tucks her into the curve of his body and reaches over her to lace all of his fingers through all of hers, pressed over her diaphragm so he can feel her breathe. “You said you wanted to end up with me,” he murmurs into her hair. “Is that still true?”

Her fingers tighten where they have a grip on his. “Yes. How can you ask-- Of course, yes.”

“I can ask because we were twenty years old when we made that deal. And people change. If you said that – thinking I wouldn't ever change....”

“I know people change. And you  _have_ changed, these last six years; you've changed a lot. I have, too. I'm not saying don't change. Just – change  _with_ me. I swear I want you to have all the things that make you happy. I do. But you can't-- Nobody is ever going to want me – the way you want me. Everyone else needs things that I can't give them, but you just. You see me, and I can't lose that. I don't care if it's selfish. I want you to be happy, but I want  _me_ to be happy, too, and I need you to be happy.”

“I'm right here,” Eliot says. “Alpha and omega. I'm here, Bambi.”

Margo tugs his arms more tightly around her, and they breathe together in the dark for a while. Finally she says, “If he can't love the way you can, he doesn't deserve you. If he can't see who you are, all the messy, sweet, badass, fabulous ways you are, and just – fall the fuck in love and never climb out again – he  _doesn't deserve you_ .”

Eliot's not sure what  _deserve_ has to do with – anything in life, really. But it's such a sweet thing to say, he's not going to fight her on it.

There's nothing he hates more than fighting with Margo.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Eliot wakes up on Monday, Margo is long gone to work, but Eliot's extra pillow still smells like her hair.

That's twice in one week, he realizes, that he's fallen asleep with his arms around someone else, and before that it was.... Ages ago. Who can even remember.

More lifestyle changes. He guesses he'll accept this bed-sharing trend as a substitute for a fucking cigarette, although not without mixed feelings.

He reaches for his phone, and he's not surprised to see a text from Q. _Hey, you're probably still asleep_ , it says. _When you get this, can you call or come over? I want to talk to you just for a minute, if that's okay._

Call or come over? He weighs his options, and not getting dressed yet wins out.

All Quentin says when he answers the phone is, “Hi,” but there's so much naked relief in the word that Eliot feels guilty. Did Quentin think he wouldn't call – is that how much of a cocked-up mess Eliot left behind him last night?

“Morning,” he says. “How are things on your side of the building? Weather good?”

Quentin laughs, and there's a bit of shuffling and the sound of a door closing before he says, “Things are good. I just wanted – everything last night – it happened so fast. I wanted to say some things I didn't get to say.”

Eliot feels himself tense up a little, which is stupid, because this is not a surprise. Q didn't ask him to call so they could _not_ talk about last night. Of course they're going to talk about it. “Okay,” he says. “Let's hear it.”

“Okay,” Quentin repeats. “So. If I had it to do over again, I would've – I wish what I'd done is, is asked you – is talked to you. I think this is something that should – people should talk about things like that, and because I didn't do that, I put you in a weird position. I mean, I could say that I was a little drunk or that you were – kind of sending mixed messages, but ultimately I don't think any of that really matters, and in the, in the future, I think. Spontaneity is probably not my friend in general? I'm trying to take more risks, socially – put myself out there more – but I think that's only going to work for me if we, if we. If we decide on stuff like that in advance – like when we're not drunk and it's not actually happening already, you know? Does that make sense?”

“It does make sense,” Eliot says. “And you're not wrong about the mixed messages. I had – mixed feelings, I guess. Not about you. Margo and I have been – I don't know, there's some low-key domestic tension lately, and I was kind of annoyed with her, that's the only reason I wasn't really in the mood for it. But it was also sexy as hell, and – I mean, if you want there to be a next time--”

“I'm not assuming that--”

“I know, but just because – I mean, I wasn't – shutting it down for all time, necessarily.”

“Oh,” Quentin says after a brief pause that seems freighted by more than its fair share of awkwardness. “I-- Well, I wasn't sure about that, I guess.”

“At the risk of jeopardizing my reputation for humility,” Eliot drawls, trying to inject a little bit of – normalcy or something in the neighborhood – into this conversation, “sleeping with Margo and me is a peak life experience. Maybe it's not for everyone, but if you think it might be for you, then hell, why shouldn't you? You're single, you're trying new things. Why not take advantage of all your options?”

“Well,” Quentin says. “Maybe that's. Something we can revisit sometime. When you and Margo are in a better place, and it's – you know. Overall better timing. Anyway, I just. Thanks for checking in.”

“My pleasure, sweetness,” Eliot says. He doesn't even really mean to. It just happens naturally.

Quentin huffs a little sound into his ear, amusement or relief. “You could come over here for lunch before work. If you want.”

It's – tempting. It's ridiculously tempting. But Quentin's never going to miss Eliot if he can't bring himself to _go away_. “Should probably get some things done,” he says vaguely. “Rain check?”

“You know where to find me,” Quentin says.

Why is that so – weirdly sexy? Eliot thinks about it all day long, and not just while he's jerking off in the shower. Although mostly then. That soft, rough-tentative burr in Quentin's voice when he's making himself be what he thinks of as bold: _you know where to find me_ . A little beckoning, a timid half-promise: _come to where I am, I'm right here. Come to me, I want you to._

It's sexy, Eliot realizes mid-jerk, because it hints at what it doesn't quite promise, not outright. That if Eliot calls, comes over, looks for Quentin, finds Quentin – that Quentin will pick up. Open the door. Smile like he means it. It's permission, like an item of clothing dropped casually on the floor. Not a striptease, but a...vulnerability.

It's sexy because Quentin keeps making himself so damn vulnerable, and that's – new. Eliot is not the kind of person that people just.... That they trust like that. Eliot knows his vibe, and he knows how to stay in his lane: he knows that he reads to a certain type of person as a challenge to be conquered, and to a certain other type of person as a disaster waiting to happen, a bomb that could go off in their lives at any moment.

Quentin seems oblivious to all of that. He really seems to believe...that Eliot is his friend. His actual friend, the kind who might just stop over and have lunch with Quentin and his son for no particular reason except the pleasure of their company.

It's sexy because the type of person who would let a train wreck like Eliot have that kind of all-access pass into his life would probably do pretty much _anything_ . Eliot doesn't even know how to respond to that, but he knows it makes him want to do _everything_.

Anyway.

Margo's not wrong; Eliot has let a truly stupid proportion of his life get wrapped around this supposedly casual relationship, and it really has to – he has to find a balance. He bought a huge lot of damaged vintage formal-wear online; it came a couple of days ago, and he hasn't even found the time to open the package yet. So that's what he spends the afternoon doing – pulling everything out of the box and checking it over, testing seams and zippers, searching for tiny pinpricks left behind by moths and cigarettes, making a list of what can probably be patched, what can be torn up and the fabric repurposed for something else, and what's just trash. There's one dinner jacket and an A-line dress that he thinks he kind of loves, but he knows are unsalvagable, and just for fun he sketches out what they would look like if they were in wearable condition. He's pretty sure that if he got ambitious, he could just make those, and...maybe he will. What the hell else is he doing with his life, you know? There's only so much Netflix you can watch, and he's pretty sure that hobbies are what responsible adults have instead of drinking problems.

He gets so into the project that he's almost late for work. He tapes the two best dress sketches to Margo's bedroom door and labels one _Too Scooby-Doo?_ and the other _2019: Too early for post-ironic Mad Men themed party, y/n?_

He assumes she'll recognize that second one as a joke. They haven't thrown a party since they moved to Indiana, first because they didn't actually know how to throw a party without any money or cocaine, and then because it turns out the kind of party you _can_ throw without any money or cocaine – like dinner parties and game nights and shit – require having friends you actually want to talk to. And after two years in this condo, they have...maybe three entire friends, if you include Margo's amiable dumbass of an assistant Josh and Todd from downstairs whose plants they watered that week he was on vacation in Spain and Quentin, who is whatever Quentin is. Needless to say, they're not going to be throwing a party anytime soon, let alone one that requires themed costume design.

Eliot doesn't miss Los Angeles much, but...every now and then. He loves fashion for its own sake, but there is a certain zing he never gets now that no one is ever lurking around waiting for him to show a weakness in taste and be destroyed. He spends his whole shift at work lost in pleasant nostalgia for certain old frenemies and rivals and fuckbuddies that he rarely remembers at all anymore and who would, every last one of them, find Eliot's current life alien and horrifying on an almost Lovecraftian level.

When he comes home he finds, entirely unexpectedly, Quentin sitting on the floor of their shared hallway, his Macbook precariously balanced on his knees as he types away. “Lose your key?” Eliot asks, even though the door to Quentin's apartment is slightly cracked, so he's obviously not locked out.

Quentin looks up and shoves his hair back. He looks tense and tired. “Carla's non-responsive,” he says. “When they called, they said it would be about an hour. That was earlier. A few hours ago. So.”

“Oh,” Eliot says. He's not terribly clear on what Quentin wants right now, but he sits down against the wall by Quentin's side. “Hey. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” Quentin says. “It's – we knew. You know, we – knew. I just. I have to tell him in the morning.”

Eliot puts his arm around Quentin's shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he says again, helplessly. “It's – hard. What happens now?”

“We'll go down tomorrow and start packing up his things, I guess. There's a visitation at her church on Friday night and the funeral Saturday morning. I have to be there, obviously I have to be there for Ted, but – god, it's going to be just hell. It's all going to be Carla's church friends and family I don't know, and every time I think about it-- Look, I know it's – this is awful, and – you have work and all, but – is there any way? Not the whole week, but if you could – if you could come on Friday? I just need, I'm so fucking sorry to drop this on you, but I don't know how I'm going to get through all of it with no one there I can even talk to, I don't know, I don't--”

“Yeah, hey. Hey. Of course I'll come.”

Quentin blinks. “You – yeah?”

Impulsively, Eliot leans in and kisses Quentin's temple. “It's probably going to be hell anyway,” he warns. “But I won't let you be there alone. Okay?”

Quentin snaps his computer shut and slumps against Eliot, huddling into the crook of his arm. “I don't deserve you,” he says.

“I know this doesn't seem important in the grand scheme of things,” Eliot says, “but – why are you in the hallway?”

“Stalking you, I guess.”

“You can text, you know. I would've come over, even without literally tripping over you.”

The way Quentin shrugs moves Eliot's arm around him. “This seemed...less needy? Don't ask me why. Oh, also I need you to feed my cat while I'm gone this week. Speaking of the endless fucking string of favors I need from you which I will probably never be able to pay you back for.”

“You don't pay for favors,” Eliot says. “You pay for – I don't know, like, you _hire_ people if you feel the need to pay. I'm your friend; I even happen to be fond of your cat. So don't worry about it. What else do you need?”

Quentin's breath hitches, as though that's just one step away from the thing that's inevitably going to break his resolve and drive him to tears. “If you keep being so nice to me, I'm really gonna – end up with a serious thing for you.”

Of course it feels nice to hear. That doesn't make it true. Eliot closes his eyes and nuzzles into the top of Quentin's head a bit. “Absolutely appalling,” he says. “See, this is why it doesn't pay to be nice to people. They're always getting attached and then doing things like writing me into their novels and trying to make out with my roommate to get my attention.”

“You are such a dick,” Quentin laughs. He puts his hand on Eliot's chest and nestles further down against his side, and they sit like that for a long, long time.

 

He calls his boss around noon and tells him about needing the weekend off for a family funeral, and then he tells Margo his plans over kebabs. She absorbs it silently for a moment, letting her pumps dangle off her toes so the back of them don't get scuffed on the brick wall where they sit when it's not too hot to eat outside. Finally she says, “Can I come?”

That sentence has probably never come out of Margo's mouth in all her life. It takes Eliot a minute to regroup, and then all he can say is, “I don't know, I didn't ask. Do you want to come?”

“Never mind, you're no use,” she says, and takes her phone out of her purse and starts texting right there.

A few minutes later, she's secured Q's permission to attend. “We'd have to leave by the middle of the afternoon by the latest,” Eliot says.

“I can take a half-day. I have personal time.”

“You aren't planning on causing any trouble, are you?” Eliot says. It's a joke, sort of. Not like he thought it was hilarious or anything, but the whole thing seems vaguely absurd to him, so that's how he's treating it.

But he's not prepared for Margo to look over at him with _thunder and devastation_ on her face. So this is apparently what it feels like when you piss off Margo for real, and Eliot retroactively rescinds judgment on all the people he's seen burst into tears under that look. “That sweet boy just lost the only mother he ever had, and you're asking if I want to go there and _cause trouble_? Is that what the fuck you think of me?”

“No,” Eliot says quickly. “No, I – that's not what I meant.” He doesn't have any justification, so he doesn't try to fake one. She huffs for a moment, but then tilts her head and lets him kiss it in apology.

 

So Eliot has a key to Quentin's place now, and he dutifully uses it to feed and water Fester and doesn't snoop around even a little bit. He does throw out some produce in the fridge that won't survive the week, and he takes the trash out, which Quentin didn't think to do before he left town, but that hardly seems like transgressing any boundaries.

He texts Quentin a couple of times a day, just to ask how they're doing, and the answer is always something like _Surviving_ or _okay, right now_ or _kind of up and down_. Eliot doesn't have any suggestions about how to make it easier for a kid coming up on his sixth birthday to bury the woman who raised him and also have to leave his home, so he doesn't suggest anything at all.

Margo returns one of the dress pictures taped to Eliot's door with _Just Scooby-Doo enough_ scrawled across the bottom and underlined, so Eliot starts wondering what kind of fabric to make it out of. He has a dark blue with little daisies on it that he bought on a whim thinking he was going to change up the curtains in his room, but Margo isn't a big fan of fussy prints, and anyway it doesn't fit the mod vibe. He'll have to go shopping when they get home.

He picks up Margo at her office at three on Friday. She's wearing a sharp pinstriped pantsuit with her hair in a braid and carrying an overnight bag, a garment bag, and a basket. “What's that, Little Red Riding Hood?” he asks while she puts it in the back floorboard.

“Just – things,” she says. “Gummy bears and some coloring books and. Things like that.”

“Oh. Good idea,” Eliot says. Was he supposed to bring anything? He knows about sending flowers; he didn't do that either, but he does know you're supposed to. He never thought about...funeral gifts.

It's been a while since they've road-tripped anywhere, and this isn't much of a road trip, but Margo does push the passenger seat as far back as it will go, then prop her bare feet up on the dashboard while she scrolls through Eliot's playlists, like they're headed off to a house party at the beach or something. “We should take a vacation sometime,” Eliot says.

“Mm. Where to?”

“I don't know. Chicago? Toronto?”

“Quelle exotic,” Margo says dryly.

Eliot shrugs. “I want to go shopping and see a show, and ideally I don't want to be on an airplane, so. That's what came to mind.”

“It's an idea,” she allows. “Just the two of us, or were you thinking about bringing your boyfriend along?”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, I realize that,” Margo says with a generous drip of acid, “but that's no one's fault but your own. That boy would be your lapdog if that's what you were offering. _Boyfriend_ would be an easy ask, if you weren't so chickenshit.”

“So now you're back on board, I gather.”

“I was never not on board. I want you to stop acting like an asshole, but I told you. I think you should have it if it makes you happy.” Eliot shoots an assessing glance over at her, and Margo rolls her eyes. “I'm not lying to you, dipshit. I think.... You know, you were right. When you said maybe it was time to be a little bolder about the things we want. Remember when we used to be bold?”

Bold is one word for it. They certainly did seize their fair share of days. “So what would you do?” Eliot asks her. “Go big. Sing out, Louise. What's the dream?”

She smiles a little and replaces his phone in the dash mount, having chosen his Anthems playlist. “You really want to know?”

“Well, you can't say that and then not tell me, so tell me.”

“I think I do want to have kids. I know what you're thinking,” she adds after a moment, which she can't possibly. Eliot isn't even sure what he's thinking. “I'm not exactly the maternal type, right?”

That wasn't what he was thinking. “I think there's more than one type of mother,” he says.

In some ways, she's always been as much his mom-friend as his weird-unrequited-love friend. She gives him advice, whether he wants it or not. She comes through when he needs something – anything. She kicks his ass when he needs it, and she shuts up and pets his hair when life is kicking his ass. She is, more than anyone in the world has ever been, Team Eliot. What wouldn't Margo do for him? What hasn't she done?

He's no expert, but that sounds like the stuff that mothers are made of. Ideally, at least.

“My parents weren't great, you know?” He knows. “Not quite on the level of your dad and evil stepmother, but they were-- They just had this shitty, narrow, judgmental view of the world. Like everything was a competition and everyone was out to get everyone, and everything I did reflected on them, which was what they really cared about. I wasn't, like...allowed to enjoy things or ever have any fun at all, because it was unladylike. But I wasn't allowed to be upset, either, because somehow that was the same thing. And I was – like, I was a _child_ , you know? So I know that now I'm – fucked up or whatever, I'm not warm and fuzzy and I'm not very forthcoming about my stuff, but I have figured some things out about life, and I think I know how-- what a better childhood would look like. I just. I want to have a kid and then – do all the things for them, right? Let them wear weird glitter to school and sing on the street and – teach them how to dance in dangerously high heels and do their eyeliner so it doesn't get fucked up if they want to cry.”

“But what if you have a girl?” Eliot says.

She flashes him a smile. “Mixed Martial Arts and the electric guitar, I guess.”

“I think you would be really good at it,” Eliot says. “I honestly do. Unconventional, I guess, but so what? Maybe your kid would write a best-selling memoir or something. I think they would – probably hate you at least at some point, but then they'd come back around and realize how...lucky they were.”

Margo leans her elbow on the door and watches the shoulder of the road, her knuckles tapping along with Pat Benatar on the windowpane. “So,” she finally says carefully. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes to-- Are you asking – you want me to be the father?” On the one hand, that seems – obvious? But still he kind of can't wrap his head around it.

“I want you to-- I mean, we fucking live together, don't we? What, are you just – not going to help?”

“I didn't say I--”

“I mean, my job has good benefits and everything, but I would have to go back to it at some point to keep those. What the fuck are you doing with your life?”

Harsh, but fair. “So you want me to stay home with...?”

“Unless you've invested way more of your heart and soul into pouring watered-down drinks for college kids than you've been letting on, I thought, yeah, maybe you would want to. Be at home with the kid or whatever.”

“Our kid,” he clarifies. He just wants to be – really, really clear on this.

“Why not?” she asks, and this time she doesn't sound quite as prickly and uncomfortable. She sounds a little wistful. “If it's you and me, then why couldn't it be – you and me plus one or two? But if you don't want to....”

“I didn't say that. It's just – a new idea for me. I don't have to decide right this second, do I?”

“Of course you do,” she says, which he recognizes as Margo for _please don't just kick this down the road, it was hard enough for me to ask once_. “Look, I'm twenty-six, this is my prime in fertility terms. My implant expires at the end of the year, and if we started trying then, we could have a kid or two before we're thirty, then get them out of the house by fifty and still have time to, like, go to Europe and be total cougars who embarrass our children by hanging out on nude beaches. I think – if we want to do it, this is the time.”

She's obviously thought this through, and Eliot can't say that she's wrong about any of it. It's just – a hell of a curveball. But then, he did ask for bold.

And what wouldn't Margo do for Eliot? And who exactly is going to be Team Margo if it isn't him?

“Is this really what you want?” he says.

“I think it really is.” After a minute she adds, “If you want to talk to Q about it before--”

“He doesn't get a vote,” Eliot says shortly. “Jesus, we just – text sometimes, and we've fucked like four times, I'm not going to ask his _permission_ to make life plans with you.”

“God, I wasn't saying _ask his permission_. I just thought he might appreciate it if you didn't spring something like this on him, and...it would be nice if we both got the things we want. He's what you want, isn't he?”

Eliot thinks about that – about Q. His soft hair and his bright smile – the way he tugs on his clothes when he's nervous, pulling his sleeves and scratching the seams on his jeans – his half-orphaned kid and his rescue cat and his card tricks and his ridiculous therapy novel full of divided families and magical destinies – the way he kisses, the way he says Eliot's name in bed. He thinks about _you know where to find me_ and _I think this was good for me_ and _goodnight, gorgeous_ – Q's heart and how it's made almost completely out of soft underbelly. How does he _live_ like that? How does he bear the weight of just – telling the truth about himself so much of the time? Fuck, it's no wonder he keeps needing, like, medical intervention; Eliot can't understand how whatever Quentin has that makes him the way he is is even survivable.

“I want....” Jesus Christ. It's so hard, it _sucks so much_ , Eliot doesn't understand how.... “I don't know. He's still on the rebound and he's depressed and he's getting ready to teach and take classes and write a dissertation and he's never even been with a man before and we don't even really have that much in common. I don't know. On paper, it doesn't exactly seem like a safe investment.”

“So break up with him,” Margo says. “If it's not a good fit, it's not a good fit.”

Eliot can't argue with that. He doesn't know what to say. _She sells seashells by the seashore_ , Eliot thinks. _Don't you dare leave now._

“Yeah,” Margo laughs. “I didn't think so.”

 

Even with Friday rush-hour traffic, they get into their hotel in plenty of time to touch up their hair and pick up sandwiches at Panera before they're due at the church in the evening.

Eliot hasn't been inside a church since he left home eight years ago, but nothing dramatic happens when he steps in, no lightning or sizzling of flesh or booming voices from the sky reciting a list of his sins and crimes. He's almost disappointed.

It's an older church, heavy with the smell of damp stone and stale velvet upholstery, the acoustics so good that even the quiet whispers of thirty or so people milling around greeting each other feel awkwardly loud, like he's eavesdropping. “It's Eliot and Margo!” Ted's voice calls out while they're signing the guestbook, cutting sharply off the stones, and everyone lets loose with the awkward chuckle that universally means, _ah, kids, what are you going to do?_

His little feet thump noisily against the carpeting as he rushes up to them, Quentin close behind, and the four of them exchange hugs and soft, garbled murmurs of _good to see you_ and _glad you came_ and _hi, there_.

Margo, who's stronger than her little body looks, picks Ted up like he's a stuffed animal. “How are you, Peaches?” she asks, meeting his eyes quite seriously.

“Mostly sad,” he says frankly. “Everyone is really nice to me, so – a little bit happy, but more sad than happy.”

“I think I spent four entire years in therapy before I could put that sentence together,” Quentin says by Eliot's shoulder, low and amused. “Why do we get so stupid when we get older?”

Margo carries the kid off, discussing the layout of the church with him from the perspective of what interests a child (mostly the playground and the walk-in freezer, apparently), and Eliot turns his attention toward Quentin. “How's Fester?” Quentin asks.

“Not really speaking to me,” Eliot admits. “I think he blames me for your abrupt disappearance.”

“Awkward. Hey, I think my tie – do you mind helping me straighten it? I can't get it right.”

Eliot eyeballs it, and it's a woody brown shade that doesn't really go with the olive undertones of his jacket, but that's not something that can be fixed. “It looks okay to me,” he semi-lies.

Quentin smiles slightly and drops his voice to a bare murmur as he says, “Yeah, I was really just trying to give you an excuse to touch me?”

“Ah,” Eliot says. He steps a little closer and takes his time loosening the knot in Quentin's tie, smoothing it out, and tugging it tight again, hyper-aware of how their breathing extends into one another's space. He tries not to let it show on his face, how – how he admires this in Quentin, how he envies this ability to ask for more, maybe to ask for slightly too much. How goddamned brave Eliot thinks Quentin is for admitting that he's comforted by the touch of someone who – cares about him.

He deserves to be with someone he doesn't have to teach a remedial course to on asking or comforting or admitting or feeling things or being brave.

Unfortunately, he seems to have picked Eliot Waugh instead.

Eliot sighs a little and strokes over Quentin's shoulder as he steps back, fingers under Quentin's lapel, brushing him neat and sharp and even. “Thanks,” Quentin says. “For – for being here, I mean. You didn't have to come.”

“Neither did you,” Eliot points out, and he watches Quentin start to argue, to say _I couldn't not be here_ and _there are some people you don't just abandon_ , and then he watches Quentin make the leap (he's practically a Professor of Actual-Facts Logic, after all). Eliot smiles a little at the soft, startled look Quentin gives him, and he nods. “Not decorative,” he reminds Quentin.

“ _So_ decorative,” Quentin corrects with a quick grin. “But not just that. I know. I'm sorry, I-- it's not that I don't believe you, it's just hard to remember. Negativity bias is kind of my superpower.”

“Nobody cares if you're slow, as long as you're cute,” Eliot says, and Quentin smiles even more and rolls his eyes.

Eliot does not give a good goddamn about anybody else here, but he does his bit by wandering around and getting introduced to people like the minister and Carla's friends and her brother and sister-in-law, who are also staying at Carla's house along with Quentin and Ted. Eliot shakes hands and says all the normal things and tells people _I'm a friend of Ted's father, my partner and I babysit Ted sometimes_ so many times that it stops sounding like a lie. It's awkward, like death always is, like everyone's total inability to say or do or know anything useful in the face of the randomness of death always is, but in another life, Eliot went to a lot of shitty cocktail parties with people who might hire him for things, so it's not so much worse than that.

He does avoid going up to look at the corpse, though. What would be the point of that? Eliot didn't know her when she was alive and has no desire to gawk at her now that she's dead.

Eventually he's paid his debt to society, and he ends up sitting in a center pew with Quentin, paging through a hymnal where he only recognizes about half the songs while Quentin tells him about the social worker who's going to be here for the funeral tomorrow, then take Ted to a temporary placement. “Like a group home?” Eliot says.

“Not exactly, but I guess it's a big family. She says they kind of specialize in emergency, short-term stuff, so they're really good with, uh, like – grief and trauma and all. I mean, he's doing okay right now, but she says we have to expect him to kind of – melt down at least a little when it really sinks in that he's. Alone in a new place. And these people are, I guess, good at handling that kind of thing.”

“That's nice,” Eliot says dryly. “And after that?”

Eliot shrugs. “They're looking at some different options. Kady says he's not as hard to place as a kid with siblings or a disability or, um, as a non-white kid would be, but he's still a little too old for what a lot of couples are looking for. People who want the whole baby-book experience. But assuming he gets through the next couple of months without any really intense behavioral issues, she says he'd be a good fit for first-time foster parents, so that's what they're looking at.”

“So I don't understand,” Eliot says. “This is, like – permanent foster care, or is he up for adoption, or – how does that work?”

“That's the thing. Legally Ted can only have two parents, so he could be adopted by one person, but if both halves of a couple wanted to adopt him, they'd have to ask me to sign over my rights.”

“Like fuck,” Eliot says.

Quentin's mouth quirks and he nods. “So that's going to be an issue for some couples. There are single-parent placements that might make sense for him, but Kady says the main family court judge in West Lafayette can be kind of a hardass about that, and that he's always going to pick a married couple over a single person, which is kind of low-key illegal, but judges get a lot of latitude on discrimination, since none of this is an exact science anyway. I don't know, there's a lot to think about. They don't want to rush.”

“It's such bullshit,” Eliot says. “You deserve that kid.”

“You're sweet,” Quentin says, “but that's actually a really bad reason to be a parent, because you think you deserve it. I'm – fine with this, I honestly am. It hurts to see his life so destabilized right now, but they'll find someone who can, who's better prepared for all of this than I am. And Teddy knows I love him. That's the most important thing, right?”

“Sure,” Eliot says. Not that he really knows the answer to this stuff, but if a person who did have a loving parent says so, then Eliot is willing to defer to the wisdom of experience.

When Margo and Ted come back, Ted is eating from a large bag of gummy bears and eager to show them his present, a nightlight shaped like a manta ray that should glow silver and blue when it's plugged in. “Because remember in _Moana_ , when we watched _Moana_ at Margo and Eliot's house?” Ted explains while he clambors half into Quentin's lap. “And her grandmother died and then she was a – like the tattoo – “

“Manta ray,” Quentin fills in.

“Yeah, she was a manta ray, at the end?”

Eliot leans back so his mouth is close to Margo's ear as she leans forward from the pew behind them. “You soft bitch,” he whispers, and she dangles her wrist over the back of the pew so that her hand is mostly hidden behind Eliot's arm while she flips him off.

“I do remember,” Quentin says, settling his arm around Ted. “Did you like that part?”

“Yeah,” Ted says, snuggling in. “Can I put it with the things that go to the new house?”

“If that's where you want it, yeah. Did you tell Margo thank you?”

“Yeah, I did.” He's still eating candy, but the sugar doesn't seem to be taking effect, at least compared to the effects of finding a comfortable spot to rest after a long day. He looks tired and vulnerable.

Quentin plucks the bag of candy from Ted's hands, rolls it up, and sticks it in his own jacket pocket. “Think you're ready to go home, buddy?” he asks. “It's getting late.”

“I guess,” Ted says.

Margo and Eliot head out to the parking lot so Margo has a few minutes to smoke, leaning against the side of Quentin's car in the dark, while Quentin and Ted make their final goodbyes inside. “You know you're going to have to quit if you start trying to get pregnant,” Eliot says.

“What's your fucking point?” she asks sweetly before taking a showily extended drag.

“Just noting that, ironically, you might end up quitting for a boy after all,” Eliot says, and she snorts.

When the Coldwaters come out, Eliot and Margo hug the kid again before he's belted into his carseat, and Margo makes sure she has the directions to the gravesite in her phone for tomorrow morning, and Quentin kisses Margo on the cheek and then kisses Eliot, most decidedly on the mouth. It surprises Eliot, and he covers by saying, “Why, Professor Coldwater. In the house of the Lord?”

“There's no such thing as the parking lot of the Lord,” Quentin says. “Also, I'm an atheist. You?”

“Satanist,” Eliot says. “But only, like, a Christmas-and-Easter Satanist.”

“Such a Slytherin answer,” he says, squeezing Eliot's wrist before stepping away from him. “You have the directions to the cemetary?” Margo holds up her phone, reminding Quentin of the existence of Google Maps. “We'll see you tomorrow, then. Thanks – thanks again. Both of you.”

Eliot waves to Ted through the window, then takes Margo's arm as they stroll back to Eliot's car. “It's eight-thirty on a Friday night,” Eliot tells her. “What do you want to do?”

“If we go back to our hotel and watch tv, who even are we?” Margo says. “We should at least find somewhere to get a drink.”

But in spite of Margo's half-hearted Googling, they don't turn up any bars close to their hotel that seem like anything other than dives, in the bad, won't-have-an-interesting-signature-cocktail way, not in the sexually-adventurous way, so they end up settling for the Applebee's on the other side of the hotel parking lot, because they can walk there, and Margo is weak for butter pecan blondies while Eliot can always be bribed with a cheap Mai Tai, he thinks everything in his life points toward that conclusion. “You're right,” he says dryly after their overeager young waiter comes to check on them for the eighteenth time. “This definitely prevents us from being old and pathetic.”

“You're just pissed because you want the Triple Chocolate whatever,” Margo says. “Order it or stop whining.”

“Is this a preview of your parenting technique?” he asks. “Do you accept constructive criticism?” That's a joke; she definitely does not.

“I'm not _parenting_ you, you gross weirdo,” Margo says. “Why do men always want the same person to fuck them and then also mommy them?”

“And I guess you're letting women completely off the hook for their daddy kinks, is that it?”

“That's different,” Margo says with a quick grin. “Daddies _are_ hot.”

“Agreed,” Eliot says.

They overtip the annoying waiter and walk back to their hotel, and like a fucking gentleman, Eliot lets Margo take the shower first. He sprawls out on the queen bed and checks his messages, feeling in his very soul that he'll have--

But he doesn't. And that's fine. Quentin is busy, and Ted was bound to need more attention than usual tonight, and they're in the middle of a run of _funeral events_ , of course Quentin's mind is not on amusing a bored Eliot right now. It's not like Eliot has any room to complain; he couldn't have had a warmer or more genuine welcome from Quentin today, there's not a shadow of a doubt in Eliot's mind that Quentin has missed him and still wants him and wishes there had been time and privacy to....

He's busy because Eliot is not the biggest thing Quentin has going on in his life right now. It's not Quentin's fault that...he kind of _is_ the biggest thing Eliot has going on.

Eliot's not used to being the one who – cares more. Even when he was suffering the most keenly over Margo, he knew that he didn't care _more_ then she did, just differently.

He cared more about Mike than Mike did about him, but that's.... Eliot refuses to be manipulated or controlled by that. He can be rational. Quentin isn't Mike – is the least Mike-like person on the entire planet, humble and self-aware and honest and nurturing. Quentin couldn't hurt a fly, and Eliot just fucking _refuses_ to be afraid of him, or to treat having feelings for him like some kind of warning sign.

So that's the end of that.

When he trades places with Margo, the bathroom is already humid and foggy, and his dick is responding to the transition from the intensity of the hotel air conditioning before Eliot's even finished getting undressed. Okay, responding to – that, and also to the vague ache of sexual frustration he's been sublimating since the moment Quentin gazed up at him with those sweet brown eyes and murmured _give you an excuse to touch me_ . Because he touches Quentin more than almost anyone he knows – touches his hair and his neck and his shoulders and his back as they hug and even touches his lips to Quentin's – but it's so rarely more than a ghost of what Eliot really wants. It keeps him constantly on edge, constantly aware of Quentin's shape and warmth, but dicks are brutal truth-tellers, and Eliot's is telling him louder than ever that it wants to be dragged all over Quentin's bare skin, wants to be wet from his mouth, wants to be the reason that Quentin arches his back and spreads his legs and breathlessly says _Eliot, Eliot_.

God, all right. Message received, thanks. He hasn't had Quentin since that morning blowjob last weekend, and Eliot's body is signing a joint agreement with his heart to the effect of: _get your shit together and get him back, you asshole_. It's worthless to explain again about being busy and having a lot going on in his life; he might as well be explaining to Fester that he hasn't murdered Quentin and hidden the body. Bodies and hearts and grumpy but loyal cats are all equally immune to reason.

Reason is reason and it's whatever, but there are all these dumb animal parts of Eliot that don't care that he's too invested for so short a time, or that Quentin has a future that's bigger than Indiana and Eliot's future is – here, is in the palm of his hand, with the partner he adores and the family he's going to have. Those dumb animal parts only know how to want boldly, even if what they want is too big, even if Eliot has damn little to give in return for a favor like _love me_.

But these things happen – infatuations and hopes and big dreams of stardom and all the other kinds of passion that motivate people to do grand, chaotic things. The point isn't to ignore them or make them go away, it's just – to control them instead of letting them control you. To use them instead of letting them use you. So right now, for instance, Eliot has five to ten minutes of deep-conditioning time between washing his hair and rinsing out the conditioner, and a supply of hot water he doesn't have to pay for, and he has his hands and his imagination and his memories. This is the time to let himself be everything he can't actually afford to be: needy and desperate and infatuated and – optimistic about the potential of –

Everything about Quentin feels like potential, when Eliot lets it. Now is the right time to let it feel that way, because within the boundaries of this shower and its ill-fitting plexiglass door that's leaking all over the bathroom, potential can be kept confined to potential and can't ever turn into pain.

Eliot is a hedonist, and the feeling of falling in love is heady, dizzying, addictive. The trick is to stay falling in love forever, and never, ever land.

It's the landing that kills you.

He dries his hair when he gets out of the shower, because it's too long to trust with air-drying and too short to twist up overnight and make cute waves like Margo does, but he puts off shaving til the morning because the mirror is too hopelessly fogged to bother with, and he comes to bed. It's still early, but masturbation really is sex with someone you love, and he's suffering from the strange, soft vulnerability he only occasionally gets post-coitally – only on the odd occasions when he's reluctant to move onto the next thing, reluctant to let a moment disappear into the vault of history.

If he told Margo that just jacking off in the shower while thinking about Quentin Coldwater could clock in as a memorably precious experience, she'd-- He doesn't even know what she'd do. Have Eliot checked for brain tumors, probably. She wouldn't really understand, but it's not really fair to ask her to. Eliot doubts he'd understand what it felt like if he hadn't experienced it – this sweet, luxurious sensation of knowing someone worth missing, of longing for something that's yours and not yours at the same time.

“You're cuddly,” Margo tells him, warily but not disapprovingly as Eliot spoons up behind her, making use of far less space than the queen bed allows for. “Are you having feelings or – what?”

“I generally have feelings,” he says. “Do you just experience them seasonally, like the way a snake eats?”

“God, wouldn't that be fantastic?” she says. “But okay, jackass, I'll ask a more precisely calibrated question. Do you want to talk about your fucking feelings?”

It's a generous offer, and he knows Margo makes it because it's genuine, because she really does care to make sure he's on a basically even keel. Eliot mentally rifles through all the things he could conceivably have feelings worth talking about – being in a church again after everything, catching reflective glimpses of himself in the face of a motherless little boy, meeting someone he's half-serious about romantically and not knowing whether or how to move forward with it, the prospect of being a father when his own experiences with fatherhood have been universally just, like, the fucking worst, reckoning with a crucial and long-term readjustment to his relationship with the only constant person in his life, the fact that he and everyone he knows are definitely going to die someday.

He's not short of material.

“I don't know,” he says. “Do you really want to have a threesome with Q, or is that just something you did to cause drama?”

“Well, first, I reject your framing,” she says. “I actually found all the drama low-key insulting and definitely unsexy, so now I don't know if I do.”

“I don't know why you found it insulting. If anything, I was...on the intimidated side.”

She ponders that for a moment and finally says, “I don't know how I overlooked that. Of course it was related to your biphobia.”

“I'm not biphobic,” he says. Margo lifts her hand in the air and makes a little _ehhhh_ see-saw motion, caught in the streetlights outside the window. “Maybe I'm _emotionally scarred_ by all the men you actually have stolen from me, but that's not the same thing.”

“Oh, _all the men_ ,” she repeats scornfully. “You pussy. There were maybe, like, three. And I'm being generous. Anyway, you had to know this wasn't like that; that boy adores you.”

“Lapdog, I know, you said. And...people do experiment, you know. It happens. I did.”

“Sweetness,” she says, drawn out heavy with aggravation, “ _you are_ bisexual.”

He rolls his eyes, even though she can't see him. “A minute ago I was biphobic.”

“A minute ago you were both. Six years ago, you were both. Right now, _you're_ _both_.”

“It's more complicated than that.”

“You make things too complicated,” she says, a soft note of sympathy in her voice. “You always makes things so damn complicated. How's your boy holding up?”

Eliot is perfectly happy to turn her onto someone else's personal problems for a while, so he tells her everything Quentin told him about the foster home and the discussions with Child Services. “He says that as long as Ted ends up in a good environment, he's happy,” Eliot finishes up. “But – I know he still feels like this isn't how it was supposed to happen.”

“Hm,” Margo says. “And how are you holding up?”

It's a second chance to say all the things he passed up on earlier – or any of them – or just one thing. One true thing about himself. “I don't know,” he says. “He's so smart, and he's so honest, and I just – I don't know, Bambi. I think he's going to be the one who finally figures out that I'm, like...eighty or ninety percent fake.”

“Oh, my baby,” Margo sighs. “You're not fake. You're a piece of art. It's different.”

“A costume can be a piece of art and still be a costume,” Eliot says. “I think he just...expects there's going to be more inside the costume than there is, you know? I think he's going to be disappointed.” _Potential_ is the most amazing feeling in the world, but it can't be opening night forever. Eventually the lights come up; eventually reality always has a way of making itself known.

“You're wrong,” Margo says.

It's adorable that she thinks so.

 

They're not early or late to the graveside service, and they grab seats close to the back of the rows of folding chairs. Ted and Quentin spot them from the front and wave, but they're surrounded by extended family – Ted's, if not Quentin's family – and Eliot and Margo are definitely C-list guests.

Someone hands them cream-colored programs for the service, with Carla's obituary printed on the back, and Eliot tunes out the prayers and the homily as much as he can, his eyes drawn over and over to the list of Carla's survivors – her brother and his wife, her ex-husband, _and her grandson, Theodore “Ted” Coldwater, the son of her late daughter Arielle_. It's such a strangely elusive sentence fragment, concealing a million untold stories and at least two lives that disappear almost entirely under the bloodless boilerplate – Arielle's life, and Quentin's.

Eliot reaches out to hold Margo's hand. If he died tomorrow, who would the obituary say he was survived by? His father who can't stand him and a stepmother he barely lived with for a year? Margo – would Margo include herself, write herself into his story as his _best friend_ or his _partner_ , or would this relationship that's never made sense to anyone but them just vanish into her silent and private grief, an unnamed and unnameable inheritance?

He closes his eyes during the Lord's Prayer and he can physically see the neat typeset words floating behind his eyes: _preceded in death by his mother, Shannon Waugh_. It's so visceral that his eyes snap open, and he's staring at the grass between his shoes and feeling light-headed. Margo grips his hand harder, because somehow she knows. He ends up singing along with the Gloria Patri, not because he had any intention of participating to that level, but just because singing always helps ground him in his body a bit, helps him feel more in control.

It's an okay funeral, Eliot guesses. He doesn't go to enough funerals to compare. People cry what seems to him like a reasonable amount, and only once is he fairly sure he can pick out the specific sound of Ted crying.

Afterwards they go back to Carla's house and participate in the attempt to make a dent in the enormous amount of food that's been arriving over the past week, mostly in casserole form. Eliot wanders through the half-packed house, shaking hands and pretending he remembers the names of friends and cousins that he met last night. _Friend of Ted's father_ , he tells people, having lost all track of whether he's saying it for the first or second time. _My partner and I babysit Ted_. He says it so many times the words lose all meaning. He can see a group of men standing on the back porch smoking, and he swears he would bite one of them and run away with a stolen pack in his mouth like a goddamn nicotine werewolf.

Most people just smile and nod when he tells them, but he says it to a short young woman with a wildish mane of dark hair, and she locks in on it with disconcertingly keen interest. “Babysit?” she says. “How often?”

“Uh,” Eliot says stupidly, having totally forgotten until now that it's kind of not even true. “Well, not – that often. We live across the hall, and sometimes they'll come over, or we'll go over there. We're just – friends of the family.”

“Sorry,” the woman says, putting out her hand toward him. “I'm Kady Orloff-Diaz. I'm Ted's caseworker.”

“Oh, hi,” Eliot says. “You're – hi.” _You're here to take him away_ , he almost says. But only almost. “Eliot Waugh.” He debates the wisdom of it for a second, then just figures what the hell and says, “Not to tell you your job, but I really think you should reconsider. Quentin's a great dad, and Ted wants to live with him.”

“No small talk, cool,” she says. “Look, for what it's worth, I like Mr. Coldwater, and I agree with you, he's good with Ted.”

“Then I don't understand what the fucking problem is,” Eliot says, and this can't be helpful, but. He's angry about it, and he's tried taking the high road, but he was raised in this exact same miserable state by a fall-down drunk who used to beat the shit out of him and then break down crying about how Eliot looked like his dead mother, and _nobody did a goddamn thing_ about it, because he was Eliot's _father_ , and everyone acted like that meant something. Everyone's always acted like that means something until right this minute, when apparently fatherhood is just a minor inconvenience to the project of rehoming a bright, friendly kid who's learning chess and likes mermaids, and how the fuck is Eliot not supposed to be mad about all of it? “Explain it to me like I'm an idiot, because I honestly do not understand how pulling him away from his family and making him live with strangers is good for him right now.”

Kady doesn't rise to the bait. She doesn't look very easy to provoke, which Eliot guesses is an essential skill in her line of work. “You seem to be reacting pretty emotionally to this,” she says.

What even is that supposed to mean? “These are people's lives,” he says tightly.

“I'm aware. And I know it might not seem like it to you, but I work for Ted. I like Mr. Coldwater fine, but I work for _Ted_ , and I can't protect him from everything, but there are still risks I won't allow him to take, whether he wants to or not. There are laws that mean I can't tell you all the details that might hopefully put your mind at ease, so you're gonna have to just trust me, okay? I don't want Ted to be sad; nobody wants that. But what I really don't want is to be right back here in a year or two years or five years, trying to transition Ted into another home at the end of another funeral. Life is random and fucked up; maybe it'll happen anyway. But I'm going to make every choice in my power to make sure it doesn't, and you can die mad about it, Mr.-- who are you, again?”

Right before Eliot can either apologize or fuck things up worse – or quite possibly apologize _and_ fuck things up worse – Margo comes swooping in and wedges herself between them like Eliot doesn't exist. “You're Kady, right?” she says. “I'm so glad to meet you, Quentin thinks you're fantastic. I think your boots are fantastic – so kickass, I love a daring shoe with a formal look. Okay, walk with me, I want to ask you something.” She loops her arm through Kady's and removes her from the situation without so much as a glance in Eliot's direction, and it's more than a little weird how he can still feel Margo's glare like ambient waves.

Not that he doesn't deserve it. He should've just bitten an old man for a Marlboro.

 

The rest of the afternoon is – weird. Eliot hasn't had a drink since last night, but he feels increasingly drunk as things wear on, his unfamiliar surroundings and the constant voices and faces of strangers starting to bend reality, keeping him frustrated and wrong-footed and tense. He feels like he's been in this house forever, cluttered with boxes and tables full of cheese trays and seven-layer dip, and he misses the breathing room of his own condo, wants to be in his window seat pressing his forehead against the cool glass.

He escapes briefly to an upstairs bathroom and runs water over his fingers, uses the tips of them to smooth out a straying curl and the outer edge of his eyeliner, and when he comes back out Quentin is standing at the head of the stairs, looking uncertain about taking that last step up. “Hey,” Quentin says. “How – how are you doing? You look stressed.”

“I don't know,” Eliot says. “No, I mean – I'm fine. I have a headache, I guess.”

“Do you want to lie down? That's my room – I mean, it's not my room, it's the guest room, but it's where I've been staying. You could turn out the light and – it would be at least a little less claustrophobic.”

Eliot does want that, but also he doesn't know if he can handle that much silence right now. He keeps seeing – or, not seeing, but thinking –

And he doesn't, he doesn't ever. He doesn't worry about the father who's been out of his life ( _nobody did a goddamn thing, why didn't someone do something?_ ) since he was eighteen, and he never even thinks about the mother ( _brave boy_ ) that he only knows from pictures he wasn't allowed to get his dirty fingerprints on. He can't change it, so he doesn't let it get to him.

“No,” he says. “I'll be okay, it's not that big a deal. How are you? I mean, you seem – you seem to be handling everything really well.”

Quentin comes on up the last step, into a normal speaking distance from Eliot. They're alone up here as far as Eliot knows, but Quentin doesn't touch him. “I don't really know,” he says. “I guess I am. I did all this but way worse not that long ago with my dad, so maybe that helps.”

“It's weird telling all these strangers I'm your friend,” Eliot says. He didn't know it was weird until he said it just now, but – it is, for some reason.

“I thought you were my friend,” Quentin says, very reasonably.

“Well,” Eliot says. “Truth is stranger than fiction, right?”

Quentin looks at him for a puzzled second, then smiles gently and says, “Right. Hey, I should go back down. You really can stay up here for a while if you want.”

It's sweet, but Eliot knows he'll only bring whatever this bullshit is along with him. He's stuck with it, but the one weapon he has is distraction. “Hey, uh,” he says. “I hope I didn't stir up any shit with the social worker.”

“Yeah, what were you two arguing about, anyway? We couldn't really hear anything, but it looked intense.”

“I was just – I don't know. Trying to defend you or something.”

“Eliot,” Quentin says with gentle, fond exasperation. “I told you, I'm okay with this. It's an adjustment, but he'll have a good home, and I'll still see him all the time – more than I did before. You really don't have to help.”

Sure, use logic, like that's fair. “I know,” he says. “I just.... She said she didn't want to do this again after another funeral, and I just wondered....”

Quentin frowns, but he keeps his voice fairly neutral as he says, “You wondered what, El?”

Eliot shrugs. “I don't know. If there was – something I should know, I guess.”

Quentin looks off to the side, at a bare wall where the paler outlines of the picture frames that used to hang there are branded into the fading paint. “Something you should know,” he repeats. “I don't know, what do you want to know? Whether or not I'm going to kill myself? Honestly, I'd tell you if I knew. I take my pills, I make my little lists of things I'm looking forward to, I know which chapters of which books work best to self-soothe, I – I put you on the list, you know? Like you asked. I think about you – and Ted – both of you, when I start planning my funeral in the back of my mind, and I don't know what to tell you beyond that. I'm doing my best.”

“I know you are,” Eliot says. “I'm sorry, I just. I guess I hate funerals a lot worse than I thought I did. I haven't been to that many.”

“It's okay,” Quentin says. “I know that.... You're not the first person it's been terrifying for, and I get it. Why do you think Julia makes me check in with her every single day? The illusion of control still feels like control, and...if I feel like it's halfway out of my control, I know it's a hundred times worse for the people around me. I _am_ doing my best. I don't want to hurt you. I hope you can believe that, at least.”

Of course Eliot can. Of course he does.

 

People start to leave not long after that. Soon it's not even a reception anymore, just a handful of people cleaning up, making quiet plans for dinner and travel arrangements home.

Eliot helps load boxes of Ted's things into the back of Kady's SUV.

It's all getting – easier, he guesses. It's not the end of the world, after all. Ted will be closer than ever, when you think about it, and although Eliot keeps his distance, he can see Kady talking to both Margo and Quentin in a calm, friendly way that goes a long way toward normalizing all of this.

It's not really that big a deal at all, honestly. Eliot's the one getting too tied up in it, probably projecting a bunch of half-conscious memories of being scared and miserable at his mother's funeral. Here in the real world, everybody but Eliot is coping; Ted's had plenty of time to prepare, he trusts Kady, he's – probably scared and miserable, but he's ready to go.

Ted's doing his best. He's tough like that, like his father.

Eliot has barely been managing not to slip away and find a liquor store for the past five hours, and _somefuckinghow_ he's still an ex-smoker, so he guesses he's – tougher now than his own father ever was. There's some irony for you.

It's not just them there to hug Ted and see him off; of course the kid's a family darling, and everyone promises him they'll call, they'll see if he can travel to visit at Christmas, etcetera. It occurs to Eliot for the first time that it hasn't been so many years since a lot of these people were probably in this very house, dressed in their muted Sunday best, eating casserole and passing a baby back and forth after the funeral of a teenage girl who was _survived by her son, Theodore “Ted” Coldwater_. For at least some of them, it was probably the first time they ever met Quentin, just like today is likely to be the last time.

People always talk about families as if they're this stable, perpetual unit, but really they're so fragile. Eliot has lost touch with almost all his extended family; the ones on his dad's side cut his dad loose ages ago, and Eliot along with him, and on his mother's side, they just...slowly vanished over the years. Like some of these people, for all their good intentions, will probably slowly vanish from Ted's life. He'll end up as a line on a family tree and an awkward pang of guilt, absorbed into someone else's family in all the ways that matter.

But at least right now, Ted doesn't know that. _Everyone is really nice to me_ , he said, and it made him at least a little happier, because that's how a kid sees the world. It means he's able to receive all the comfort he's given today, which is good.

Eliot hugs him and promises that they'll have him over to watch movies the next time he visits his dad. Margo crouches down to his level, perched with improbably flawless engineering on her spindly high heels, and combs his hair into place with her fingernails while promising to see him soon. When she stands up, Eliot puts an arm around her shoulders, and she says under her breath, “If anyone harms one sweet curl on his head, I will personally destroy them.”

“Don't be morbid,” Eliot mutters through his smile. “Everything's fine.”

Quentin holds him tightly before putting him into the carseat. “You're going to call me this evening so I can tell you goodnight, okay?” he says with easy, soothing cadences as he fastens the belts. “Okay, buddy?”

“Yeah, I know,” Ted says.

He doesn't cry, but he also doesn't unclench his fingers from his Honey-whoever bear long enough to wave back to all the people who are waving goodbye as the SUV pulls away from the curb. Eliot's not sure what's allowed in this semi-public, semi-family space, so he puts a hand lightly on Quentin's back and strokes once instead of offering a hug. It seems to be the right thing, or at least Quentin sends him a glance that seems grateful.

“Hey, sweetness,” Margo says gently. “Walk with me.”

He takes her hand again and lets her lead him along the gravel walkway to the backyard. Eliot hasn't paid any attention to it yet, but it's nice. There's a picnic table and a grill, a tire swing and a hummingbird feeder and a flowerbed with those ceramic gnomes in it. It feels safe. Ted's whole life must have been so safe, and Eliot wonders if that makes it easier or harder to adapt now. Easier, maybe? Based on how well things have gone today, Eliot guesses easier.

Margo hops up on the picnic table. She has to adjust her pencil skirt to cross her legs, but she manages. “So...slight change of plans,” she says, and pulls a card from her purse. Eliot takes it; it's Kady's business card, which means nothing to him. “I have an appointment with her on Monday morning,” Margo says. “So she can help me with the application to be a foster parent. I want Ted.”

“You....” He can't quite make it sound serious in his head. Maybe it's Margo's flippant tone, the way she says it like she's decided she wants a Louis Vuitton bag even if she has to put it on credit. “You want Ted,” he repeats.

“I know, right? It's almost too perfect, I don't know why we didn't think of it earlier, either. I have a stable job, I own my home, Ted already feels comfortable with me. I'm the ideal candidate. There are some classes you have to take and home visits and background checks and everything, but Kady says it doesn't take more than a month or two, and he can stay in the temporary home for that long. Then he can come home with us.”

“Us,” Eliot repeats. “With you and me.”

Margo rolls her eyes. “I mean, and Q, in a way. Minus a couple of walls, his home is practically our home.”

She's making it sound so simple, but – it can't be that easy, right? Something that would flip every single one of their lives completely upside down can't just be done with...a few forms. “The background check will turn up the clinic, won't it?”

Her eyes narrow a little, but she busies herself checking her nails like she does when she aggressively wants to show that she's not paying something any attention. “I don't know, maybe. Going to rehab isn't against the law.”

“Yeah, but Q says the judge can kind of make a thing out of whatever he wants. And that he doesn't like single parents.”

“Mmm, about that,” Margo says. “Congratulations on our engagement.”

Nope. Can't make that fit in his brain, either. Eliot presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and says, “Bambi. Listen to yourself, this is – you can't just wake up one morning and decide to do something like this.”

“But did I really?” she says. “Think about it, baby, how is this actually a change of plans? We were going to have kids anyway; think of Ted as, like, a starter child. He can talk, he'll be in school half the time, we don't have to change diapers or sleep three hours a night – if anything, it'll be way easier than having a baby, and if we still want to do that in a year or two, we can. And as for getting married.... I mean, are we staying together or are we not?”

“Yeah,” he allows. “Yeah, we – of course we are.”

Margo shrugs. “So there you go. Being married changes absolutely nothing, except that it makes us look more stable and domestic on paper. So I know you're freaking out right now, but – don't, okay? This is a good idea, El. This would be really good for all of us.”

 _All of us_. For most of his adult life, Eliot has thought of life in terms of what's good for _both of us_ , for himself and Bambi, and he's not a particularly unselfish person, but _both of us_ always came fairly easily. Now, literally overnight, he's supposed to flip a switch and--

Now there's an _all of us_? And it encompasses – who, exactly? Eliot and Margo and Ted. And Quentin? It would be good for him, too, wouldn't it? Is he – all of them, as of this moment?

Eliot likes Quentin, he likes Quentin so damn much, but this is-- If he says yes to bringing Quentin's son into his home permanently, then that's – irrevocable. That's Q in his life with no exit strategy. Not like – as a couple, that's by no means a guarantee – but they'll be tied together through Ted, pretty much until one of them dies.

Margo is asking him to get married. Margo is asking him, more or less, to get married twice.

Well, sort of. She hasn't actually _asked_ him anything. That's not usually how Margo rolls.

“Say something,” Margo orders. “Tell me how brilliant I am.”

“Do you actually need me to say something?” he can't help but say. “It seems like you've already made all the decisions.”

“You are going to have to sign some stuff,” she allows. “This would be...the appropriate moment to tell me if you don't think...for whatever reason, you can do that.”

Eliot looks around himself at a placid suburban backyard with a tire swing and a grill, the kind of place where people with kids live, the kind of place where people with _grandkids_ live, where people spend lives based on something other than _I love these vaulted ceilings_ and _there's a cute cafe a few blocks down, we can walk to brunch if the weather's nice_. The kind of home you create if you're a responsible adult who opens a college fund and, he guesses, budgets money for orthodontics and things instead of blowing it all on vintage cuff-links and small-batch gin.

And he wants to say yes, of course he wants to say yes. He tends to want to say yes to anything Margo asks him, because she deserves it, because he's the only person who's ever been able to love her the way she deserves, and it's maybe the thing Eliot is proudest of in his whole life. But he owes her the truth, so he says, “I don't know, Bambi, this is.... This feels like something I might really fuck up.”

“You're wrong,” she says simply, and when he starts to explain himself, she says, “Eliot Waugh. Who is smarter, me or you?”

He can't help but smile. “You are, baby.”

“So stop trying to think up problems with this, there aren't any. Just, for fuck's sake. Say yes.”

The smile feels like it's – taking hold in him, anchoring into his chest and becoming something more than.... Something that touches the entire ten-to-twenty percent of him that he knows is real. “Say yes to what?” he asks. “I'm pretty sure there wasn't a question anywhere in any of that.”

“You soft bitch,” she grumbles with a smile that only touches the very corner of her lips. She gets up off the table and huffs a little bit as she fiddles with her skirt, quickly realizing that it won't accommodate taking a knee, so she rolls her eyes and goes down to both of them. Even though he knows she's low-key making fun of him right now, it's such a strange feeling to watch her do it. Eliot has seen Margo Hanson in any number of compromising positions, but never on her knees. “I can't live without you, okay?” she says. “I mean, I can but I don't want to. The world is sort of bullshit, but you make it – fucking sparkle or something, you make me laugh when there's nothing to laugh about, and you make me want to get old just so we don't – ever have to stop hanging out. You're my stable, and you're my domestic, so will you sign a bunch of shit and be my husband?” She blinks and adds in a lower, almost timid voice, “Alpha and omega?”

Eliot reaches down and gives her his hands to help her stand up. “Deal,” he says, drawing her close and kissing the top of her head. “Alpha and omega.”

It's six days after Eliot refuses to fuck Margo and Quentin when Eliot agrees to marry them. Too bad there's no graceful way to fit that story into a wedding toast, because it's really got everything.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Monday is a little bit of a blur. Margo takes the day off work and Eliot gets up early and they go to this meeting where Kady hands them a hundred and forty pieces of paper about how to convince the state of Indiana that they're live human adults who deserve a child, and this is the way of the world, so Eliot tries not to be snotty about it, even though it's rank homophobia in his book, because if they'd stuck with Plan A and just banged, they could do whatever the fuck they wanted with any kid who came along as a result.

That's not entirely true. It wasn't true for Quentin, after all.

“It's not exactly a requirement,” Kady says, handing them yet another piece of paper, “but if possible we like for new foster parents to have some counseling, and this is a list of local therapists who have some background in family and adoption issues.”

There's no fucking way Eliot is going to therapy. He likes his issues exactly where they are, lodged deeply in his subconscious where they can't bother anybody.

He has one random flash of--

_Lying on a bare concrete floor, having lost all sense of time, and all he can feel is the ache in his jaw, his teeth have been chattering for so long, he's so fucking cold--_

Yeah, no. Eliot is sure they'll make him talk about his feelings plenty in Hell, so why rush it.

“Hey, sweetness,” Margo says while they're waiting for the elevator on the way out of the Social Services building. “What's your problem?”

He can't help but smile a little; he's been with Margo so long that he automatically hears  _are you okay?_ when she says  _what's your problem?_ without even having to translate in his head. “Nothing, really,” he says. “It's just a lot.”

“You're not going to have a breakdown if I say we should stop at the courthouse and get the license, right? We both have to be there, and it's a hassle to take another day off work for it.”

“I'm not going to have a breakdown at all,” he says.

“You're acting weird.”

“I'm not going to have a goddamn breakdown. Yeah, let's go get the license.”

Getting a marriage license turns out to be insanely simple in comparison to applying to be a foster parent. They basically just show their drivers' licenses and pay fifteen bucks. The only weird part is that the clerk has to ask them about their parents; she says it's for “genealogical records,” but apparently she's just going to take their word for it, so it doesn't seem like a very rigorous system to Eliot. Still, he gives the lady his parents' names and places of birth and last known address.

“Shannon Waugh,” he tells this total stranger, this _total fucking stranger_ . “Um, Ferguson – do you need her maiden name, too? Ferguson Waugh.”

“Shannon with an o?” the bored woman verifies as she types, because of course she's not remotely interested. She's just doing her job, and she probably wouldn't be more than very mildly curious even if she knew that it's the first time in what has to be almost ten years that Eliot remembers saying his mother's name out loud.

So now Eliot and Margo have sixty days from today to get married.

And at some point he probably ought to tell the guy he's sleeping with about that.

He takes a minute while they're waiting in line for tacos at lunch and lets himself remember the night before, when he and Quentin didn't talk about anything at all – the utter relief of just  _not thinking_ about any of the past week, of only existing in a world the size of Quentin's bed, focused on absolutely nothing in his life except for studying Quentin. How his skin tastes. How he cups his hand against Eliot's face and smiles when Eliot's inside of him. How Quentin traces meandering patterns with his fingertips over the thigh Eliot drapes over him when they settle in to sleep together. 

_Get me out of my fucking head_ , Quentin said to him the first time they had sex, and Eliot understood what he meant at the time, but he didn't  _understand_ , because Eliot's head is a fairly safe space, he has strict policies about who and what gets past the velvet rope. It's the rest of him that has, traditionally, been unreliable. But last night he was fully and completely out of his head, he just turned over the reins completely to the dumb animal parts, mumbled soft and stupid things into Quentin's ear, licked his hunger into Quentin's belly and sucked Quentin's fingers between his lips where they weighed down his tongue like Quentin was taking the measure of all the secrets Eliot keeps stored there, closed up inside his mouth. And yeah, obviously the current state of affairs is not sustainable, obviously they need to have a serious conversation very soon, but Eliot doesn't regret being out of his mind last night, and he wouldn't go back and spoil a single second of it with reality.

Margo kicks him in the ankle, and he realizes they're at the head of the line and he hasn't answered about black beans or pinto.

“So what do you think about names?” Margo asks while they eat. “Hyphenate?”

“You'd change your name?” That had really never occurred to Eliot.  _Margo Hanson_ is such a profoundly real thing in the world, like a corporation, a brand.

“Well, only if you do,” she says. “I'm not going to be, like, the girl in this marriage. But Hanson-Waugh isn't bad. If we're doing this to sound like a normal couple to the judge, it sounds – normal.”

He supposes it does. “I'm game if you are,” he says. “What about a wedding? Are we – doing that? Is it weird if we do?”

Margo gives him an entirely too thoughtful look as she sips her Corona. “Do you want to?”

Eliot shrugs. “I mean...we only get one shot at this.”

“Who the fuck would we even invite?” Margo asks, not unreasonably. “I hate to ruin your childhood fantasies of being a bride, but I think any wedding we could pull together in the next few weeks would be depressing as shit.”

She's probably right. “It's fine,” he says. “I was mostly worried that you'd miss out on an overpriced wedding dress. I already dress every day like I'm attending a day wedding, I just didn't know if you'd want to – go all out on that or something.”

She looks at him another minute and then bumps his ankle again with her foot and says, “Make the Scooby-Doo dress for me. I'll wear that.”

Eliot hasn't made a whole dress from scratch in a while, but it's an absurdly simple design. It's doable.

He glances at the purple folder lying on the table with them, containing a hundred and forty pieces of paper with rules and regulations and release forms and then, he knows, a fifteen dollar marriage license stuck on top of them, and all of it inches just that much closer to feeling like real life in his mind.

This is doable. They're doing this.

 

On Tuesday he sits beside his phone for over an hour, contemplating.

It's probably pointless. He knows what he wants to say, but – he knows nobody really cares to hear it, and it won't end with him getting what he wants, so. So he's just going to save himself the effort and not call.

He makes that decision several times. He keeps sitting in his window, holding his phone. He Googled the dentist's office. He has the number. He stares at it for a long time. He makes decisions, and he changes his mind.

Dimly, he recognizes the feeling in his throat as fear, and he's annoyed about it. The worst he can hear is – what? No? That leaves him no worse off than he is right now.

He doesn't give a shit what she thinks of him – never has and never will.

He makes the decision. Several times.

At two o'clock he finally calls. She answers the phone – of course she does, her job is to answer the phone, that's the whole reason he's calling her at work. “Hi, Melinda,” he says. It feels like an out-of-body experience. He doesn't know why he's doing this at all, it's so fucking pointless. “This is – Eliot. Eugene's son.”

“Oh, my gosh,” she says. “ _Eliot – oh, my gosh._ Honey, are you okay? Where are you?”

He rolls his eyes at nothing, but honestly, it's not the dumbest thing she could have said. It's not like he's going to call to chat, so  _emergency_ would be most people's first logical conclusion. If he didn't want her to overreact, he guesses he could call more than once a decade. “I'm fine,” he says. “I'm-- Hi. Things are fine. I'm – back from California. I moved back to Indiana a while ago.”

“Oh, your dad's going to be so happy to hear that,” his stepmother gushes. “He worries about you all the time.”

Doubtless. “I'm not – calling for-- I don't want to talk to him.”

Melinda is silent for a moment. Finally she says, “Honey. I know you don't. I know you're angry.”

He really wishes she wouldn't call him  _honey_ ; they never really knew each other all that well, but she's the sort who throws pet names around without any criteria or standards whatsoever, so he makes himself not take it personally. “I have a right to be angry,” he says.

“I know you do. Your father knows it, too. I just think – it's been so long. Isn't there a time when – when it's time to....”

“When it's time to what?” Eliot snaps. “Kiss and make up? I don't know, maybe, but it's not today.”

“He's your father,” she says, like that means something. To Melinda, it always did seem to. Eliot was seventeen when she married his father, and he never really gave a shit about that, or about her – he was already long gone in his mind, just running out the clock til graduation and freedom. But he gives her at least a little credit for taking on the doomed project of making the three of them into something like a family; he knows she's the reason that his father was in the audience applauding for all his shows senior year, knows she picked out Eliot's graduation present, that she hung his prom picture on the wall when she didn't have to. He knows that whenever he was high enough billed in some janky play somewhere in Los Angeles that his name turned up in a review or an advertisement, she's the one who sent flowers to the theater; his father's a Luddite who wouldn't even know how to set up a Google alert on Eliot's name if he wanted to, and Eliot doesn't believe for one second that he wanted to. That was Melinda, even if both of their names were on the card.

She's not really a good person; she's petty and vindictive and two-faced with her friends, racist and homophobic and deeply, unjustifiably self-satisfied, but she was always – good to Eliot, in the way that she imagined parents ought to be good to children. Her efforts never meant anything to him, but he can at least recognize that she's sincere in her belief that families matter just by virtue of being families, that being related to someone by blood or marriage puts an obligation for kindness and mercy on you that still applies even if the two of you can barely stand each other.

At least in that respect, he can recognize that she's not a hypocrite. Eliot just doesn't believe the same thing anymore, if he ever did. 

Eliot tilts his head back against the wall of his nook, staring up at a stray cobweb that's momentarily become visible in a gleam of light. “That's not a reason,” Eliot says, knowing that she won't understand what he's saying, that it's outside of her reality entirely. “That's just – a biographical fact.” Melinda sighs. Eliot can hear a printer whir in the background, or maybe a fax machine. He reminds himself that she's at work, and he can't get distracted rehashing his entire childhood. “I wanted to ask you about.... I need your help.”

“My help?” she repeats, audibly surprised. Eliot can't blame her; he didn't really see this coming in advance, either.

“There was a ring,” he says. “My mother's engagement ring. It had a diamond and a ruby, do you know the one I mean? Is it still – in the house?”

The silence stretches on and on. He can hear someone else's voice in the office, just as noise, no words he can pick out. “I know the one,” she says. “I think it's at the bank now – in our safe deposit box.”

This is pointless. She's not going to-- Why would she? Eliot closes his eyes and rubs his hand over his knee, trying to ignore the way his fingers shake for no reason. This is so pointless. “He told me when I was a kid that I could have it when I got married. It's supposed to-- It belongs to me.”

“Eliot,” she says, and for someone with absolutely no interior life to speak of, she manages to invest his name with a dizzying array of meaning – skepticism and sadness and disapproval and disappointment.

She probably thinks he's going to pawn it. That's probably her  _best-case scenario_ , to be honest.

“I'm getting married,” he says flatly. “He said I could-- It's  _mine_ , Melinda. Unless he's not quite done breaking promises to me yet.”

“That's not fair,” she says. “You know he never meant--”

“I know,” Eliot snaps. “I know damn well what he never meant, but I have great news, I'm actually not going to tear up my mother's ring and have it reset into matching nipple rings for me and my leather daddy boyfriend. I'm marrying a woman, which please don't get excited, I'm still unrepentantly gay, but – she's my best friend, and we want to have kids, and – I want her to have it, it means something to me, and  _it's mine_ . If he really feels that badly about the relationship he and I don't have anymore, he could at least start by being the bigger person and – doing this for me. I would... I'd appreciate it.”

Hesitantly, she says, “I could talk to him, but I think it would mean more coming from you.”

“I won't do that,” Eliot says. “I'm not-- No. I'm not saying never, but I'm not doing that. If he follows through on this, then I'd – consider it. It would at least show that he's serious about wanting things to be different.”

“I don't know if I can help you,” she says. “Eliot, I'm so happy to know that you're – that you're okay, that you're happy. I really am. I just.... Well – you know. How your father is.”

He does know. Yes. “Yeah, okay,” Eliot says wearily. “Forget it, I just-- Whatever. Take care, Melinda. Thanks for the flowers.”

So, like he thought from the beginning: pointless.

 

On the way to work, he has to stop for gas, and in a half-dissociated flash he hears himself tell the kid behind the counter to throw in a pack of Merit Ultras. He smokes three of them sitting in his car in the Sunoco parking lot, one after the other, and it feels like he's swallowing fistfuls of broken glass, and it's better than an orgasm.

He's annoyed with himself when he snaps back into his body again.

He shakes out the rest of the pack into the toilet when he gets to work and flushes them. Before he leaves the bathroom, he pulls out his phone and texts Quentin,  _I'm first cut tonight, probably off before 11. Can I see you?_

There's no answer right away. Eliot doesn't get a response for almost two hours, and then it's an unembellished  _Okay._ Eliot finds it a little aggravating, even though he doesn't know what he expected; he asked a question and got an answer, and it's not like he has time to chat at work even if Quentin wanted to.

Eliot's just not in a great mood. Obviously.

Eliot knocks around eleven, and he tries the knob when he hears Q say something; it's unlocked. Quentin is reading on the couch, nerdy miniature gooseneck lamp clipped to the back of his book. His ceiling fan is on and he's bundled up under a quilt, which seems like a weird summer combo to Eliot, but who is he to judge. “Hi,” he says, sitting down on the part of the couch that Quentin's feet vacate to make room for him. “Business or pleasure?”

Quentin's eyebrows shoot up for a second before he says, “Oh, the – what am I reading?” He shows Eliot the cover, and Eliot doesn't recognize the title, but the style of the cover art makes him think Fillory. Quentin turns off the reading lamp and sets the book on the coffee table; he's drawn his knees up to let Eliot sit, but he stays reclined against the arm of the couch as he asks, “What's up?”

That is a question with a specific answer – multiple specific answers, really – but Eliot's not sure he's ready to just dive on in like that. He rests his hand on Quentin's knee through the quilt, and Quentin smiles softly at him, but there's still something in his eyes – not fear, but curiosity not-unmixed with caution. “I can't just want to see you?” Eliot says.

“You can,” Quentin allows. “Yeah, I mean – sorry, of course you can. No idea why you want to, but you can.”

Eliot frowns. “Is there-- Are we okay? The other night – it was okay, wasn't it?”

In Eliot's memory it's more than okay, but – the reality is, he was so goddamn lost that night, he barely remembers what he said, or what Quentin did. They didn't really – talk all that much at all, did they? Eliot only remembers fragments, whispered half into Quentin's mouth or between his shoulder blades, remembers  _let me_ and  _you're so good_ and  _want you_ – maybe not sparklingly eloquent, but – Eliot didn't say anything that would be – worrisome, did he? Jesus,  _did he?_

“More than okay,” Quentin says, with a knockout combination of smile-flutter-husky voice that means he means it, that Quentin can't (that Eliot's  _almost positive_ Quentin can't) fake. “Sorry, I'm just – a little out of it today. Come here.”

And Eliot had more serious plans than making out tonight, but, well, he was invited. It doesn't take long before Eliot is wrapped half in Quentin's quilt and half in his legs and they're trading languid, effortless kisses like they've been doing this for – months. Years. Forever.

Eliot swears he could do this  _forever_ .

“I have to talk to you,” Eliot eventually remembers to say, propping up on his elbows over a disheveled, dark-eyed, fucking  _delicious_ Q. 

Quentin gives him a smile that looks like it's already starting to go sour. “I had a feeling.”

“No, not – nothing bad. It's good, actually. I mean. I think you'll think it's good.” If he doesn't, they're all in a fuck-ton of trouble. But he will. Right? He will. “Come on, sit up.”

“I already don't like it,” Quentin says, but he sounds more playful now, and he doesn't resist as Eliot takes hold of his forearm and tugs him along til they're both sitting up, half-folded up on the couch facing each other. Quentin reaches up and toys with a curl of hair just above Eliot's ear. “I'm sorry I'm acting so weird,” he says. “I had – kind of an argument with Julia, and I guess it. Got inside my head.”

“What kind of argument?” Eliot asks.

“About you,” Quentin admits. “About.... She thinks I'm not actively advocating for my own needs in this relationship.”

And here he'd been thinking Quentin seemed...so good at asking for things. “Is she right?”

“Probably, but that's my choice, isn't it? Maybe I think there are benefits to not being so goddamn needy all the time. Maybe I'm trying it out.”

He puts a hand on Quentin's thigh, just where the skin is exposed below the leg of his boxers. “I like you needy,” he says. “You're – honest. Most people aren't.”

“Are you?” Quentin asks directly.

“I...try not to be  _dis_ honest. If that's worth anything.”

“It's worth something,” Quentin says. “Yeah. It's worth a lot. Julia just... she thought it was weird that I didn't tell you before that it was my birthday. But I just – I didn't need it to be a big deal, so I didn't mention it.”

“It was your birthday? When?”

Quentin rolls his eyes slightly. “Sunday, and I told you, I didn't care. I didn't say anything because it really didn't matter.”

Sunday was the night they spent together. “You could have,” Eliot says carefully. “Said something. I mean...I was there all night. You could have.”

“I know I could have, but I didn't want to put that pressure on you. I just. I was happy with the way things were, I didn't need anything else. So what would have been the point?”

Logical enough on the face of it. “But Julia thinks you do need something else.”

“Julia just doesn't...get what we're doing, I think. She's stuck on this idea that you're using me. For – um, just because – you know, I'm – convenient.”

Eliot can't help smiling a little. “Did you tell her that you're surprisingly inconvenient?”

“No,” Quentin says with trace amounts of Ivy League haughtiness, “I told her that maybe I was the one using you.”

“And she bought that?” Eliot says, knowing the answer full well.

“No,” Quentin admits on the breath of a chuckle. “Not even a little bit. Look, I shouldn't have brought it up. Julia thinks she knows everything about me, but people – they change, right? The whole reason I left New York was...I wanted to change. So this thing we're doing, it, it might not have worked for me at one point in my life, but that doesn't mean it can't ever work, or that it – doesn't work now. I think it does. I think we work.”

“Would you like to make things a little more interesting?” Eliot says.

Wisely, Quentin looks unsure about that. “Interesting how?”

“I wish I had a really elegant segue here, but I – I'm just going to say it, okay? I know you wanted custody of Ted, and – if I could make that happen for you I would, but what if – given that he has to have a foster family, what if – that was us? Margo and me.”

It takes Quentin a minute to process that. It's fine. It's taken Eliot three days and he's not sure he's fully processed it yet. “You and Margo,” he says. “At – here? I mean, at your place?”

“It is where we live,” Eliot says.

“But. What. How would-- how?”

He's pretty cute when he's disoriented, but Eliot tries to stay serious. “I know it seems a little dodgy at first glance, but Margo is – she's better than people think she is. At – life. And people. She can do this. And.... Ted needs his father in his life. His real father. I'm not saying it'll be simple, but I think we all bring – unique strengths to the table. It's doable. Don't you think it is?”

“I don't know, I can't think,” Quentin says, clipped and a little panicky, and Eliot reaches out instinctively to grab him by the arms, leaning their foreheads together. Quentin shudders, on the verge of some kind of overwhelm. “I don't know,” he says breathlessly, “it's so much to – I don't know--”

And Eliot doesn't know quite what to do, but he knows he has to do something, so he takes a kitten-hold on the back of Quentin's neck and says in his most serious, Shakespearean voice, “I know. I know it's a lot, and it's fast, and you're not sure. You don't have to be sure.  _I'm_ sure.”

He's no such thing, but whatever. Faking shit is at the very top of Eliot's skillset.

Quentin droops toward him, allowing Eliot to wrap his arms around him and rub his neck. “This has all been – such a struggle,” Quentin says, muffled against Eliot's vest. “It's been so hard, El, I know I'm supposed to be an adult, and I'm supposed to know what to do, but every fucking second since I got here has been – overwhelming. I don't know how I feel, or how I'm supposed to feel, or what the right thing to do is, and I don't even have the friends I used to have and – and I miss my dad so much. I just – I keep getting slammed back and forth between – being so happy and feeling free for the first time in – like, my whole life – and then being  _two seconds_ from cracking up completely, and I'm so tired, I'm  _so tired_ , the only decent nights of sleep I've had for months are, are the two nights you were here, and I know I can't depend on you like this, I know I'm going to scare you away, and maybe you're not even who I think you are, maybe I am using you, in a way--”

“Okay, sh-sh-sh,” Eliot orders gently. He places a kiss against Quentin's hair and then strokes it, urging Quentin to press further into Eliot's space, into Eliot's arms. “You don't have to put yourself through this, sweet boy; I know this feels like it's all on you, but it isn't anymore. Okay? You hear me?” Quentin manages a nod, and Eliot rewards him with another kiss. “Can you let me help you? I want to.”

“But – do you really – want to do it? You said, you said Margo can do this, and you said Ted needs me, but – what about you? I never exactly got the feeling that you were looking for a, for a commitment and this would be a huge commitment, so is it something you want at all?”

That's...a question. Eliot's brain slides off the edge when tries to think about it, whispering snakily to him,  _what does it matter now, you're in so deep, it's too late to change your mind, he'd fall apart, she'd never forgive you...._

And that's no answer. Even Eliot knows that. But Quentin is looking up at him, his eyes so full of hope and the fear of hoping, and he can't say.... Even if the answer is that Eliot has no answers at all, he can't  _say_ that.

So instead he says, “I look at it as – an adventure. And I love those.” Which is practically –  _essentially_ the truth. It's true that he's doing it for love, at least. That's the  _gist_ of things, which makes it not dishonest. He strokes Quentin's face with his thumb and kisses him softly and says, “You do look tired.”

“I shouldn't be,” Quentin grumbles. “I haven't done anything all damn day but lie on the couch.”

“You want to take a shower?” Eliot asks, and then decides that they're in executive-decision mode tonight. He smiles at Quentin and bumps their foreheads together. “Let's do that. I'll wash your hair. Come on, you need it. Let me.”

Quentin lets him.

Eliot runs the water for a minute to warm it up, shedding his upper layers while Quentin watches on, slightly embarrassed by not quite knowing what he's supposed to be doing. Eliot doesn't mind, though, and he minds even less as he skims off Quentin's t-shirt and boxers, getting the best seats in the house for the flush that blooms up on Quentin's collarbones and neck and cheeks. He's not hard, but he's obviously not uninterested, either; that much is clear from how avidly he watches Eliot finish stripping down. “Remember, I have a praise kink,” Eliot teases. “Choose your words carefully and you might be happy you did.”

“Everyone has a praise kink,” Quentin mumbles, clearly only half plugged into the conversation. “I had a sex dream about you,” he blurts out.

Eliot grins, taking hold of Quentin's hands and ushering him safely over the side of the tub and into the shower. “Tell me everything,” he says as he investigates Quentin's shampoo and conditioner, which is thankfully at least a notch above the cheapest thing at CVS.

“You really don't want to know,” Quentin promises him.

“That kinky?” Eliot says, delighted.

“No, you know, I think I know you well enough by now to suspect you'd love it if I had a bunch of hardcore kinks,” Quentin says. He's starting to sound like himself again, and the way he turns his face up into the spray eagerly makes Eliot think he's discovered a Quentin-life-hack that's worth remembering.

“So, that nerdy,” Eliot guesses again. Quentin shrugs:  _what are you gonna do?_ “You know, you could tell me anyway. I might do it.”

“You don't do elf roleplay,” Quentin says.

It's equally delightful and horrifying, the casual way those words come out of Quentin's mouth. “Seriously?”

“Well,” Quentin hedges. “There were costumes, at least.”

“I love costumes. Wait, costumes plural? Were you dressed up, too?”

“We all were,” Quentin says.

Eliot turns him around by the shoulders and squeezes shampoo generously into his own hands. “Are we talking cast of thousands? Did you do the whole Fellowship, sweet boy?”

“No, it's – I  _wish_ my sex dreams had that kind of continuity. They really just end up like – someone's incompetent amateur Comic-Con porno.” Quentin groans softly and tips his head back as Eliot's hands start to work through his hair. “No elves,” he mumbles. “But you were dressed like the Goblin King.”

 

Eliot – doesn't hate that, honestly. “Wicked. Seductive. Memorably huge cock. I think I'm flattered.”

“Two out of three is pretty close.”

“Choose carefully,” Eliot mock-growls, leaning closer to Quentin's ear.

Quentin laughs giddily – giggles, if Eliot's being honest. “The second two, the second two,” he assures Eliot. “You're not wicked. You're – El, you're so good to me.”

A voice that sounds very inconveniently like Margo buzzes behind Eliot's eardrum, saying  _you'll let a guy make you over just so he'll call you a good boy_ , and that is – not incorrect, probably, but if what Eliot is becoming for Quentin's sake is – like – a responsible adult, that's – good, right? It's good to take responsibility, and Margo also said Eliot wasn't doing anything with his life before this, which was  _also correct_ , and – now he is. Now he's doing something that matters, for people who need him, and is it for some reason invalidating that Eliot also gets – what he gets out of it? He's taking one for the team to the tune of  _the rest of his life_ , so if he also gets a wet, sexy boy leaning back in his arms and complimenting him, does he really have to feel fucking guilty about it? Really?

He does feel guilty about it. A little. But not enough to stop, not by any means.

Working his fingers through Quentin's wet hair gets Eliot pretty heated up, but Quentin's cock doesn't start showing serious signs of activity until Eliot is rubbing foamy handfuls of body wash (from one of those dour black bottles that are officially For Men) in circles over Quentin's chest. “Easy,” Eliot warns, putting a stabilizing hand on Quentin's hip as he squirms and arches, pushing against Eliot's other hand as it works. “I want to take care of you, okay? Let me do this right, and then you can have whatever you want.”

Quentin stubbornly takes hold of Eliot's hand and tries shoving it down toward Quentin's cock. “Love the enthusiasm,” Eliot hums, breaking immediately free and returning to Quentin's chest. “And some people think you don't  _actively advocate for your own needs_ .”

“I  _actively_ need a blowjob,” Quentin says, and Eliot can't help but laugh at his grumpy tone and press him tight between Eliot's arms, because Quentin is just – kind and vulnerable and smart and witty and sexy and honest and  _good_ , he's so good.

Eliot could look forever, and he'd never find anyone better than Quentin.

Now all Eliot has to do is – not fuck it up. Just – act like a fucking responsible adult, is that too much to ask?

It's a project, for sure, but Eliot gets over the first adulting hurdle by preventing Q from killing them both in the shower by being an impatient little bitch, and he figures he can compromise on drying off. It's Quentin's bed after all, so if he wants both of them rolling around on it still dripping wet, he can have his way; Eliot is not the impatient bitch who's going to make him stop. He's got Quentin surging under his hands, under his mouth,  _in_ his mouth, and Eliot's in so damn deep now, there's no turning back, and maybe there never really was. Maybe he was undone once and for all the minute Quentin said  _that's not a no_ , bold and nervous and hopeful that there was no such thing as destiny – that starting today he could do more and be more – that Eliot might be his Day Ten, his big adventure.

They've mostly dried off by the time they're lying on top of the damp bedspread, touching only at the lips and too worn out to move even for their own convenience. “You, uh,” Quentin begins shyly. “You usually – when I do that, you won't – come in my mouth like that.”

“Mm,” Eliot agrees. “Well. I guess I'm protective of you.”

“But not of yourself?” Quentin asks, kissing Eliot's damp lower lip with exquisite softness.

“I think you're a pretty safe bet,” Eliot says. “No offense.”

He can feel Quentin's little whuff of laughter against his face. “None taken? I did get tested recently. For my new university health plan. So – no big surprises, but – now you know for sure. You?”

“Pretty recently,” Eliot says. “I could again. If--”

“I don't want to put you in a weird position,” Quentin says quickly. “I know that, that you're not my boyfriend, I get that. We can keep being – more cautious, if you're, um. If you're seeing other people, or, or you think you might be soon.”

“I'm--” Eliot begins, and then stops short, because he doesn't have an elegant segue for this, either.

“Hey,” Quentin says with a smile obviously meant to reassure Eliot. “It's really okay if you are. I won't be jealous. I mean, I don't necessarily want to hear all the gory details, but – I get it.”

“I'm marrying Margo,” he says.

Quentin blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Well, that – makes sense.”

“It's not a big deal,” Eliot says. “We don't plan for it to change anything. And I'm not seeing other people. I mean, I realize that's a weird thing to say at this particular moment, but – there's Margo and there's you, and. I don't really envision anyone else fitting into my schedule in the near future.”

“So just you and me and your wife, then,” Quentin says, with only a slight scratch in his voice to mar his attempt at a joke. “Good to know. I guess – congratulations.”

He reaches out and brushes his fingers down Quentin's arm. “You're okay?”

“I'm okay,” he says. “Like you said. It isn't that much of a change.”

“It'll all be all right,” Eliot says. “We'll be happy – all of us. All of us, okay, sweetheart? I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

It's actually comforting, that Quentin doesn't respond right away. It means he's thinking. It means that whatever he says will be what he really believes. “I really do trust you,” he says. “Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but I always – I always feel so safe with you.”

Eliot strokes through Quentin's hair at the crown. “Think you can sleep tonight, sweet boy?”

“If you stay,” Quentin says artlessly – not teasing or flirting, but just giving a simple answer to a simple question. Who just says things like that?

Quentin Coldwater does, obviously.

 

A few weeks go by, and Eliot knows that for someone who's supposed to be married and in charge of a kid in – like, all but immediately – his life is still weirdly chill, but things are busy compared to a few months ago, when he basically had nothing but free time.

There's the house to get in order, and Ted is too old to require much childproofing, but they do have to turn Eliot's room into Ted's, because somehow in all of this Ted ended up with two bedrooms in this building and Eliot with zero. So it's a good thing Eliot's been enjoying the uptick in bed-sharing taking place in his life lately, because it's about to become the only option that isn't his car.

It's fine, he doesn't really mind so much, except that storage space is already at a premium and the odds that his marriage is going to end in a murder-suicide over closet space are frankly not reassuring. But they get a new, higher frame for Margo's bed – Margo and Eliot's bed – and with the help of an infomercial vacuum sealer and an organizational spreadsheet, he gets a surprising amount of his wardrobe in plastic bins underneath. He'll just have to rotate new stock out into his two-tenths of the closet on a fairly consistent basis, which, sure.

He and Margo go over on the weekend to meet Ted's temporary family, the Pickwicks. They're nice enough, if a little overly peppy; they have three bio-kids and a diverse assortment of fosterlings, all of whom attend Catholic school; Ted starts in early August and he seems to like it pretty well, so everyone's probably stuck with Catholic school at least for the year. “Quit whining,” Margo tells Eliot. “I went to Catholic school, and I turned out okay.”

“You sued your parents for emancipation when you were sixteen and blew your whole inheritance by the time you were twenty-one,” he reminds her. “You're a coke addict with not one but two sex tapes online, you accidentally ran a brothel for two months in 2014, and you're marrying a gay man.”

“And you blame Catholic school?” she says. “I don't know what you think those nuns were teaching me, but it wasn't nearly as exciting as you make it sound.”

Ted's birthday rolls around, and the Pickwicks throws him a pool party; Quentin and Margo and Eliot all go, as well as the other foster kids and a bunch of Ted's classmates, and it's chaos, but Ted's happy. He really seems happy, for the most part, although his emotions get the better of him sometimes, and when he melts down and starts crying, it lasts until he cries himself sick or to sleep. Eliot has never seen this happen personally, but he talks about it with Papa Pickwick and Ted's teacher and Kady and Margo in his first parent-teacher meeting.

Parent-teacher meetings are things that – parents do, but they let Margo and Eliot come anyway, because things are chugging along, and everyone pretty much agrees that this is not only doable, but practically already done.

It's really happening, and Eliot – like, 80, 85% believes that.

After the meeting, he and Margo and Kady hang out in the parking lot and talk about parenting as if they're adults, while the women smoke like teenage assholes. They agree that Ted should be seeing a counselor who specifically deals with children and bereavement, which Eliot guesses is a specialty that some people have, because the world is a trash fire.

“What about you?” Kady asks him as she lights a second cigarette.

“I don't smoke, thanks,” he says, even though he knows that's not what she's talking about.

Kady rolls her eyes. “Did you ever talk to anyone after your mother died, I mean?”

Jesus. Imagine. “Yeah, that wasn't really – my father's aesthetic, as a parent.”

“Not too late,” she tells him, as if he were really worried that he'd missed his opportunity. “It might help you know what to say to Ted.”

Great, now he has to feel guilty about that, too. “I don't even really remember my mother,” he says. “Don't think I'd have that much to say on the subject.”

“Still,” Kady says. “Listen, I know your type, okay? You handle your shit, you're used to keeping your feelings private, it freaks you out to sit and talk about them.”

“You're so right,” Eliot says dryly. “I'm extremely butch in that way.”

“I know I'm right,” she says, digging into her messenger bag and coming up with a business card for him. “Here, at least take this. I don't usually recommend this guy, but I'm recommending him to you.”

Eliot glances at the card; it's a foreign sort of name that he can't quite make out in the fading late-summer evening light. “Why don't you usually recommend him? What's wrong with him?”

“He's kind of a dick,” Kady says with a lopsided smile. “But that actually works for a certain type of therapy-averse dude like you. Also he's my boyfriend, and it looks tacky.”

“Is he more or less of a dick than you are?” Eliot asks.

“Book a few sessions with him,” Kady advises, “and then you can tell me.”

He doesn't really intend to do that, but there's no harm in keeping the card in his wallet. Sometimes he changes his mind about things.

Like Ted, Quentin also starts his new school year. His first section of Intro to Logic is at nine fucking thirty on Monday morning, and because Eliot has a generous soul, he spends the night before at Quentin's, and then actually gets up in time to make coffee and tie Quentin's tie for him and pep-talk him through his quiet freakout. “They'll like you,” he promises Quentin with a gentle kiss. “You're very likeable.”

“You are not a representative sample,” Quentin says.

“I'd better not be. Hey, where do you keep your lint brush?”

“My what?”

Lord give him strength. “The thing you use to pick the cat hair up off your clothes? No?  _Q_ .”

“I didn't think--! Is there a lot of cat hair?”

There is, in fact, a lot of cat hair; Eliot would swear that since he's been spending more time over here, Fester is now aggressively shedding on Q to mark his territory. But it's fine, because Quentin's junk drawer contains leftovers from his recent move, including a whole roll of packing tape, which Eliot uses to pull up the worst of it. “There we are,” he announces when he's finished. “Now other than your haircut, you barely look like a lesbian at all.”

“I really hate you,” Quentin laughs.

“And yet here we are,” Eliot says. “Pretty illogical, wouldn't you say, Professor?”

Quentin winds his arms around Eliot's neck and says, “Your analysis shows a lack of sophistication, and I have reason to suspect you haven't even done the reading. D-plus.” Eliot smirks and kisses him, and when he's done Quentin is flushed and sparkling. “Okay, A-minus,” he says.

“ _Minus?_ ”

“Should've done the reading!” he says cheerfully on his way out the door.

Eliot gives his notice at work, more or less – he agrees to stay on for a couple of shifts a week, Saturday night and also a closing shift on Wednesday. Unfortunately, Quentin has a graduate seminar on Wednesday afternoons, so that's not ideal scheduling-wise, since private school doesn't have school buses and someone has to pick Ted up every day, starting dizzyingly soon now.

“It's fine,” Margo says. “I'll leave early on Wednesdays and flex the hours out somewhere else.”

“You're going to get from campus to the school by three-fifteen?” Eliot stresses. “They don't care if you're gone basically the whole afternoon?”

“Excuse me, I fucking keep this department running,” Margo says. “If I have to stay late on Tuesday so I can leave early on Wednesday to pick up my fucking kid,  _they_ will live with it.”

It's hardly an emergency, and they handle it just fine, but the whole thing still keeps Eliot awake all night, staring at the ceiling. Someone has to pick Ted up  _every day_ . Someone has to feed him. He'll have homework. He'll probably want to play soccer someday, or the violin, or something else that requires lessons. They'll have to schedule doctor's appointments for him – dentist appointments – counseling appointments. He'll grow out of his shoes constantly. He'll have a bedtime, and it'll be their job – it'll be  _Eliot's job_ – to make sure he doesn't weasel out of it.

Eliot wouldn't say he's freaking out, exactly. That's...an overstatement. He just doesn't get to sleep at a very reasonable hour that night, that's all.

 

They delay the wedding until the dress is done. The dress itself is easy to make, but Eliot starts late on it because he can't find a fabric he likes, not with the right kind of drape. He ends up having to order it online and send the first bolt back because it's way more yellow-toned than was obvious from the website. The replacement he gets has a cool, silvery sheen to it, and it flows like moonlight, and it's exactly what he had in mind. He buys a couple of yards of silver and white embroidery and uses it for the band at the bottom of the miniskirt and as wide shoulder straps.

“You know you're not even supposed to see me in this until the wedding,” Margo says while he's doing the final fitting.

“Oh, no,” Eliot says blandly around the stick pins between his teeth. “This is absolutely the first time we've ever done anything we're not supposed to.” He steps back and eyeballs the hem, then skims his hands over her hips making sure it falls straight.

It looks good – sexy but also elegant, casual in its simplicity even though it's clearly a special-occasion outfit. Eliot is pleased with it. He puts an arm around Margo's waist and helps her down from the chair he's been making her stand on so he can see what it looks like when she moves. “I like it,” he says. “I'll just finish hemming it tonight and we're done.”

“So when am I going to wear it?” she says.

They're five weeks into their sixty-day license. They've been waiting to pick a date, to – actually do this for real, even though it takes almost no effort, even though it's completely up to them. Eliot shrugs. “Whenever you can take another afternoon off, I guess,” he says. “We could do it next Thursday. Then we'd have the rest of the night to – go to dinner or whatever.”

To celebrate? It's not a big deal and it doesn't change anything, they both keep saying that, except Eliot's not sure he believes it. It's a big deal to the nineteen-year-old idiot that Eliot used to be, the one who thought Margo was a goddess that he'd die to have. And people change, god knows Eliot has changed, but he thinks it might be a big deal to him now, too, if only because....

From now on, no one can edit Margo out of his life story. Eliot gets to lay aside all these years of  _it's hard to explain_ and  _we have a deal_ and  _it's complicated_ , and replace them with something that may stay mysterious but will no longer be unspeakable. He was going to live and die with Margo anyway, but now he's going to be  _survived by his wife_ in black ink, legible and inarguable. She'll be his family in ways that no one will ever think to dispute or deny, not just chosen family but  _family_ by the world's standards, and he didn't think that mattered to him, but he was wrong. It's not the only thing in the world that matters, but that doesn't mean it doesn't matter at all.

“Sure,” Margo says, grabbing her phone from the breakfast bar and pulling up her Google calendar. “I have a meeting on Thursday, but I'll move to the morning.” It's so surreal to watch her type it into her calendar and know that this is how they pick the anniversary they'll have for the rest of their lives – a random Thursday in late August when neither of them had anything else pressing to do.

It's a relief, actually. Eliot cares about this, but he doesn't want to...pretend it's something that it's not. Things were getting a little heavy there for a minute.

 

Eliot has spent every Sunday night for the last few weeks across the hall at Q's place – not just Sundays, of course, but consistently every Sunday. He likes lying on the couch scrolling Instagram for no reason with his earbuds in while Quentin hunches over his desk, grading last week's quizzes to return in the morning; it seems like they're ignoring each other, but Eliot finds it peaceful.

He likes it when instead of his evening text, Quentin Facetimes Julia and talks for a while; Eliot keeps his earbuds in, so he doesn't know what they talk about, but he likes the way Quentin's face softens and relaxes when he's talking to Julia, the easy way he laughs. Eliot likes to think that it's been this way for Quentin in the past – that before he moved here, he had times that were easy, friends that made him laugh, good memories.

He likes not getting up in the morning, just opening his eyes at nine under the spell of Quentin's sweet kiss, running his thumb over Quentin's fresh-shaved jaw and saying,  _Okay, baby, thanks_ when Quentin tells him there's coffee in the kitchen and he can stay as long as he wants. And he does stay, usually all morning and sometimes into the afternoon, curled up with Quentin's ugly cat and drifting in and out of sleep in a bed that smells like Quentin's Very Manly bodywash.

It's Eliot's indulgence, and he knows it's a pattern he won't be able to continue for much longer, which makes it all the more precious.

Eliot knows that he'll look back on this as the Year of Quentin, the way he remembers being nineteen as the Year of Margo and being twenty-two as the Year of Mike. There were other years – in Margo's case, there's every year – but the first one always stands out for Eliot, the low, consistent ache of pleasure and longing, the way love seeps into his life through every crack and corner until he's flooded with the light of it.

Nothing lasts forever. Reality has a way of making itself known. Eliot knows that – you get about a year of this, before the world goes cold again and becomes – just the world. But in the meantime, it feels so damn good, and Eliot's never been adept at refusing things that feel good on account of future consequences.

He's still at Q's place, cleaning the coffeepot and emptying the dishwasher for him like a good guest, on the Monday before his wedding, when he gets a call from a number he doesn't know, and on some impulse he picks up instead of letting it go to voicemail. He doesn't even think, he just does it.

“Hello, Eliot?” Melinda says. “It's – Melinda. I'm at a McDonald's in West Lafayette. If you want to – if you'll come meet me – I have your ring.”

Eliot closes the dishwasher carefully. “Are you alone?” he says.

“Yes. He doesn't, he doesn't know I'm here. Oh, my gosh, I feel like a jewel thief, this is the craziest thing I've ever done. Honey, you were right. You should have it; your momma would want you to have it.”

“Which McDonald's?” he asks, and she tells him, south of town a bit, right off I-65.

When he gets there, she's eating a hot fudge sundae at one of the tall tables with stools. She looks just like he remembers, except that she hasn't dyed her roots in a while, and she's gained maybe five or ten pounds. She smiles nervously at him and waves when he comes in, and she half-turns on her stool like she might reach out to hug him if he'd let her. He doesn't let her, just circles around out of range and sits down across from her.

She has the ring – he assumes it's the ring – sitting on the table beside her, in one of those miniature manila envelopes tied with a little red string around a paper wheel. “Gosh, I forgot how tall you are,” she says. “Taller than your dad.”

She didn't actually forget; Eliot was two inches shorter when he was eighteen, about the same height as his father. “How is he?” Eliot asks, because he supposes it won't – kill him to be polite. “Still sober?” he adds, because he doesn't know, maybe it will kill him. Why take chances.

“Fourteen years,” Melinda says with obvious pride. Eliot knows that tally leaves out a relapse or two, but – sure. Fourteen years as the crow flies. Good for him. “He misses you,” she says. “I know you think he was – that he didn't love you, but that was never true. He asks God's forgiveness every day for the way he treated you back when he was drinking. I know he'd – it would mean the world to him if you'd – give him just a chance to ask for yours.”

“You know, Melinda, honestly – I'm not sure I care about that anymore. Am I fucked up because my dad used to beat me? I mean, probably, but who isn't fucked up?” He gets some small, petty pleasure out the discomfort on her face when he swears.  _Gosh_ , he supposes that doesn't make him a very good person. “Tell him I forgive him, if it makes you both feel better. But my whole life – everything he ever said to me, drunk or sober, just – made me hate myself a little bit more, and I know he's not about to apologize for that. I don't think he even really understands that, or ever will.”

Melinda can't seem to look at him. She's just folding and unfolding her napkin, studying it intently. “I hope you know – it's not true,” she finally says, the quiver of suppressed tears in her voice. “He never hated you.”

“Well, how nice for him,” Eliot says, louder than he meant to. “But  _I did_ .” He takes a deep breath. He's not going to make a scene in a goddamn interstate McDonald's. “And I don't now,” he says as calmly as he can. “Which is pretty nice for me. So my decision is, I'm going to be selfish and keep doing what I'm doing.”

She picks up the envelope like she's weighing it between her hands. “I understand,” she says. Eliot doubts she's really capable of that any more than his father is, but at least she's trying.

He takes the envelope when she holds it out to him. He opens it and shakes the ring out into his palm. It's smaller than he remembers, a little gold infinity sign with a diamond set in one loop, a ruby in the other. Eliot turns it over between his fingers – is it smaller than he remembers, or does it just look that way, held in his adult hand instead of a child's? The jewelry box sat in his father's room throughout Eliot's childhood; he'd take out her ring and her earrings and her necklaces, admire them, rub them through his fingers. Sometimes he'd wear a string of her pearls, hidden under the bulk of his sweater in the winter; his father knew about going through the jewelry box, but not about that part, thankfully. When he married Jeanette, he took Eliot's mother's things away for good – to the safe deposit box, Eliot guesses, or sold them or who knows. It was devastating for Eliot, and for once, his father was at least moderately sympathetic.  _I'll keep it safe for you_ , he promised Eliot.  _We'll put it somewhere safe, and when you're older, you can have it for the woman you want to marry, how's that sound?_

“Thank you,” Eliot says quietly. “She'll love it.” He has no idea if that's true or not, but he's grateful regardless. Melinda is never going to be his favorite person, or among his top three thousand favorite people, but – he's grateful.

“Tell me about her?” Melinda asks hesitantly.

Eliot smiles at the ring. “Margo? She's – beyond words, honestly. She's had everything going for her, and she's had absolutely nothing, and she's still just. Herself. Every inch of her, completely herself. I guess we're – mostly getting married because there's this kid we want to be foster parents for, and it's a little easier for married people to get all the go-aheads on that, but the truth is.... She's the most important person in my life, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for her. I wanted to give her this because – she's my family, and I want her to know that. I think that's always the point of getting married, isn't it?”

“Maybe it is,” Melinda says. “Well. I hope maybe I'll meet her someday.”

That sounds like a fucking disaster of an idea, but it seems cruel to say so. “Maybe someday,” he says instead, which is – unfalsifiable.  _Maybe someday_ almost anything could happen.

 

In the meantime, Thursday comes around, and Eliot gets married.

They meet at the courthouse at about three, along with their two witnesses – Quentin, of course, and Margo's assistant Josh, who is one of those bubbly, jovial founts of positivity that Margo usually can't stand, but for some reason she sees depths in this one that are utterly invisible to Eliot. She looks – amazing, she outshines the whole town without even trying, and for a brief moment when he sees her, Eliot is eighteen again, seeing her from across the room and accepting without hesitation that he'll never be in the presence of that kind of glamour and grace, let alone possess so much as a spark of it on his own.

They have an appointment, but other than that, no clue what the fuck they're doing, but a couple of gray-haired secretarial types walk them through everything, and there's not all that much everything – wait here, sign here, stand here, standard vows all right with you? Eliot agrees to everything; if he looks as nervous as he feels, no one will ever suspect that it's a fraudulent marriage. To whatever degree it's a fraudulent marriage.

Some days it feels more real than others. Today rates high on the reality side of the scale.

“Do you have rings?” one of the secretaries asks them.

“No,” Margo says.

“I do,” Eliot says, and Margo looks up at him in surprise. “If you want it,” he says, taking the envelope out of his breast pocket. “Don't – feel obligated.”

Margo pokes at the ring where it lies in his palm. “No, it's. Pretty,” she says. “I didn't get you one.”

“I kinda happened to have this, is all,” he says, which is –  _essentially_ true. It's been his all along, as far as he's concerned; he just had some delivery issues. “It was, uh. It was my mom's.”

“Jesus,” Margo says before she can think. “I mean... okay. Yeah, it's – it's really pretty, El. Thank you.”

Eliot waits here and signs there and stands here, hits his marks perfectly and remembers when to come in with his one line. He can't help doing a thing with his eyebrow when the  _forsaking all others_ part comes around, and it Margo makes a little noise that is actually a laugh but passes for a cough.

_With this ring I thee wed_ he repeats when he's told to repeat it, and he slips the ring on her finger. It's a tiny bit loose, but not so loose it's going to fall off right away. He's probably supposed to let go of her hands, but he doesn't. She says the things she's supposed to say, and the judge says _learn and grow together_ and the  _journey you will share_ and some other things, Eliot's not really listening.

The  _you may kiss your bride_ part puts a cap on the whole thing, and when Margo reaches up to put her arms around his neck, it occurs to Eliot that he might've made the skirt a little short, so he puts his hands on her hips and is a little too focused on anchoring her skirt for modesty to contribute much to their first married kiss. It's fine, though. He always likes kissing Margo.

And then it's over. That's it. They pay a few bucks for extra copies of the marriage certificate, which they'll need for the name-change stuff, and they shake hands with the officers of the court and Quentin hugs him and then so does Josh, which was wildly unnecessary, but whatever, and they're done. It's three-thirty on a Thursday afternoon and Eliot walks out into the hot sun holding his wife's hand. “Uh...holy shit,” he says to her.

She throws back her head and laughs. “I know, right?”

Quentin insists on taking pictures, so Eliot and Margo sit on the steps and let him do that. Josh insists on buying them drinks, so they find a nearby coffee shop that also sells wine, and Eliot sits with his arm around Margo while they all eat cupcakes and drink wine and pick their favorites out of Quentin's twenty photos, and basically just kill time until their dinner reservations.

There's more wine at the Italian restaurant, and champagne for tradition, and they get very good service when they tell everyone they're newlyweds. Josh turns out to be quite the drinker, and funny in a slightly inappropriate way, and Eliot's still not his biggest fan, but he's starting to realize why Margo enjoys his company. Quentin's also in a good mood, and he's not a very good actor, so that's probably on the up-and-up. Once, Eliot drops his hand under the table to find Quentin's hand and squeeze it briefly, and Quentin just smiles at him, so as far as – all that goes, Eliot supposes it's going all right.

They stay for several courses, and the complimentary dessert, and after-dinner drinks, so it's around seven when they finally leave and no one is entirely sober anymore. “Where to next?” Josh says, finger hovering over the Uber app.

“The Cottage,” Margo says firmly.

“Oh, come on,” Eliot protests. “I'm there  _every day_ , it's my  _day off_ .”

“The Cottage,” she repeats, so they go to The Cottage.

If Eliot were just a little more sober, he probably would've guessed there was a thing happening, but he isn't and he didn't, until they get there. Margo has arranged for Eliot's favorite DJ, the one who does the 80s nights on first Fridays, and all Eliot's co-workers, even the shitty ones, have shown up for more cake and more champagne, so basically it's a pop-up reception that Eliot didn't have any responsibility for planning and immediately turns into someone else's problem when he decides to duck out, which is in Eliot's opinion the pinnacle of party technology.

Eliot's boss gives a boring and low-key sexist toast about how Eliot is unflappably good with customer drama and therefore prepared for marriage, and then tries to pull Quentin up to the DJ platform to say something, having somehow identified Quentin as the closest thing around to a best man. Quentin looks like if he steps up onto that platform he's going to panic-vomit like a startled octopus releasing ink, but before Eliot can figure out how to intervene, Josh bounds past him like he's waited his whole life for this moment and launches into some kind of stand-up routine on the theme of Margo's terrifying glory. Eliot catches up with Quentin as he's bolting for the back, just to reassure himself that Quentin is actually headed for the bathroom and not, like, out the emergency exit and headlong into traffic.

“I'm sorry,” Quentin gasps. “God, I'm sorry, that was – I embarrassed you – I'm sorry, I just can't – without preparing anything--”

“Hey, hey,” Eliot says, stroking with both palms over Quentin's hair and then his shoulders. “I'm not embarrassed. It's fine, people barely noticed, everyone's doing their own thing. Don't be sorry, everything's fine.”

“Okay,” Quentin says. “Okay – good. Well, I'm gonna – step out for air, just for a minute. You should go back, have fun.”

Eliot hesitates, but he decides that too much fussing is only going to embarrass Quentin more, so he says, “Okay. Get some air, have Ronald get you some water.” Quentin nods, looking grateful, so it must have been the right thing to say.

It's technically a wedding reception, so the DJ makes everyone clear a space so Eliot and Margo can have a first dance. “Did you plan this, too?” Eliot asks, gathering her into his arms to wait for a song to start. “If it's Bryan Adams, we're getting an annulment.”

“I thought maybe I wouldn't fuck with you tonight,” she says. “Consider it my gift.”

It's not Bryan Adams. It's Tears For Fears, which feels so obvious in retrospect, and the whole day has been sort of weird and fun but also matter-of-fact, so lacking in sentimentality, that when it hits Eliot it hits him all at once. It's one of his favorite songs, and it's the memory of the night when Margo the Impossible first looked at him like he was worth caring about, and it's all the tears and the kisses and the fights and the promises in the years since then, and she's older and more unbreakably powerful and also softer than she was back in the day, but she still looks up at him with the same huge eyes and the same smile on her cupid's-bow mouth, the Disneyfied brand of perfect beauty that made her his Bambi way back when she was still the rest of the world's Margo the Queen.

It hits him, and he catches himself singing along –  _something happens and I'm head over heels, I never find out til I'm head over heels_ – not just because he loves the song, but because he needs the outlet, he can't hold onto this much. He kisses her when the song ends, and a bar full of people, mostly strangers, cheers and applauds, and he hears Josh yell “Shoooooots!”

Things start to get a little choppy after that.

People keep putting drinks in his hand, and the music is everything Eliot loves, and he hasn't gone out dancing in a long time. He dances with whoever's in front of him, whether he recognizes them or not, and he drinks whatever people are buying, because it's his damn party, and he loses track of time entirely.

INXS comes on at some point, dark and slinky and fuckable, and Eliot's mind goes right to Quentin. A second later, he remembers that Quentin is a real person who's probably still actually in this bar, not just a sexual fantasy, and he breaks out of the crowd into the margins where he suspects-- And yeah, there he is, in one of the lounge chairs against the wall, his feet tucked up under him and fussing with his hair with the hand that's not nursing a beer glass. Eliot knows the guy sitting on the arm of the chair, too – Ronald, one of his least unfavorite co-workers. Eliot used to hook up with him, actually; he was handsome and eager and good-natured, which in the short term made up for their fundamental lack of chemistry.

He looks eager as hell to hear more about whatever Quentin is talking about.

The music is loud, and Eliot doesn't hear exactly what Quentin says when he walks over, except that it includes Eliot's name. He reaches out and hooks two fingers in the collar of Quentin's shirt and pulls; Quentin flails a little and sloshes some of his beer before Ronald can rescue the glass out of his hand. “Eliot, no, come on,” Quentin pleads as Eliot drags him toward the other dancers. “I can't-- I'm not a good dancer.”

“I don't believe you,” Eliot growls, pulling Quentin tight to him. “It's just sex. It's no different.”

Quentin laughs nervously. “I don't think I want to have sex with everybody watching, either.”

“Really? I thought that was your sex dream.”

Quentin laughs again, but this time it sounds more like Quentin. He's relaxing a little in Eliot's grip, letting himself be swayed, literally and figuratively. “I'm usually the one watching in those,” he says.

“Boring,” Eliot says. He leans down and says, “Ronald has TMJ issues. Not his fault. Nice guy. But he can't give head to save his life.”

“I'm – sure he appreciates you spreading that around,” Quentin says.

“Don't fuck him,” Eliot says. He wants it to be a joke; he doesn't think he gets there.

Quentin looks up at him, searching his face in the uneven lighting. He settles his hand on Eliot's waist and leans further into the back-and-forth of their dance. “I wasn't planning to,” he says.

That should be all he needs to hear – vaguely, Eliot is aware that it's really more than he has a right to know – but somehow he can't quite let it go. “Even if he asks?”

“He's not gonna ask,” Quentin snaps. “He was just being nice; we were talking about Star Wars.” He relents then and squeezes Eliot's waist. “But yeah – even if he asks. I'm out with my friends tonight.” 

Eliot feels light wash across him, something being moved on the DJ platform – here and then gone. He drops his head in the darkness and kisses the top of Quentin's head.

 

He has no idea what time it is when they get in another Uber. It's just the three of them ( _you and me and your wife_ ) – fucked if Eliot knows what Josh took tonight, but he's still going strong.

Eliot holds the door open and tries to help them in, like a gentleman. He only manages to shove Margo and then to bump Quentin's head on the door, but since they're all as drunk as he is, they don't seem to feel it. He climbs in after them, using Quentin's thigh for balance.

The silence in the car feels nice. It's been so loud for so long. Eliot tilts against Quentin's side and breathes like a sober person would breathe. Like he thinks he remembers sober people breathing.

“I don't think I'm supposed to be in the middle,” Quentin mumbles.

Margo snorts. “I've been saying that for months.”

“Be nice,” Eliot says. “Be nice. You know I like him.”

Quentin makes a low, contented noise and leans his head against Eliot's. “If I had a sex dream about the two of you...”

“ _If?_ ” Margo repeats indignantly.

“...I think you'd be – you should be – Lannisters. Jaime and Cersei. That's who you are.”

“Why am I always the villain in your fantasy?” Eliot says.

“You're not the villain, dumbass, I am,” Margo says. “Quentin thinks I'm  _corrrrrupting_ you.”

“No, no, no,” Quentin says earnestly. “You're not. I didn't mean. That.”

He dozes off before he can explain what he does mean. Eliot wasn't that interested anyway.

It takes the three of them so long to get up two flights of stairs that they're half sober again by the time they make it to the top. Eliot pulls Quentin along into their apartment with them and insists on watching both Margo and Quentin drink two full glasses of cranberry juice. “Nobody leaves my sight until I'm sure you're not going to choke on your own vomit.”

“I never vomit,” Margo says scornfully, which as far as Eliot knows is actually true.

“I'm so jealous,” Quentin says abruptly. He looks sweaty and miserable, and Eliot finds a clean washcloth to run under cool water. Quentin looks at him gratefully and moves his hair aside so Eliot can drape it across the back of his neck. “I was supposed to get married this summer,” he says. “It was supposed to be me.”

Eliot finds a seat carefully with both hands and sits down in it. “I didn't know that,” he says. “That you were engaged.”

“Well, not, not formally. But we talked about – timelines. You know. Between graduation and grad school, we. It was the. It was the five-year plan.”

“Romantic,” Eliot can't help saying dryly.

Quentin smiles weakly. “We – could be. We had a romantic side. Sometimes. And a five-year plan. Both.”

“Life's an adventure,” Eliot says. “Fuck a five-year plan, that's what I always say.”

Five years ago, Eliot was.... God, who can even remember? Wearing polo shirts and going to yacht parties and reading  _The Wall Street Journal_ for a guy who berated him and called him a whore if he didn't care for Eliot's choice of shoes. If Eliot had formed a five-year plan at that time, it would've been.... He has no goddamn idea, but not this. Not where he is now.

And he likes where he is now.

He tries to be comforting. He puts his hand over Quentin's and says, “You'll forget her. It just takes time.”

“I don't want to forget her,” Quentin snaps.

“Hey!” Margo says sharply. “You get to stay exactly as long as you make him happy. Your time's up the second you make him cry. Understand me?”

“Margo, don't,” Eliot says. “It's whatever, he can't. You can't help who you love.”

Margo shakes her head like all of this is too fucking stupid to bear, then leans in and places a kiss on Eliot's cheekbone. “I'm taking a shower and going to bed,” she says. “You idiots try not to break anything.”

Eliot catches her hand and kisses the back of it. “Goodnight,” he murmurs.

He listens to the shower start up. His head hurts, and even though he has both palms spread out on the breakfast bar to anchor him, he's worried that he'll slide off the bar chair. Beside him, Quentin sighs a little, removing the no-longer-cool washcloth and folding it up on the bar. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean.... It doesn't. Reflect on you.”

“I get it,” Eliot says. “Margo's just....”

“She is,” Quentin agrees. “Which is good. She loves you. You – deserve to be loved.” Tentatively, Quentin puts a hand on Eliot's shoulder and strokes his upper arm. “If I didn't say it yet – congratulations. I really think you're gonna be happy like this.”

“I want us all to be happy.”

“I know you do,” Quentin says. “But, El, I won't be. I never am, not for long. I don't want you to blame yourself for that, or think if you'd done something differently..... It doesn't matter. Nothing – ever changes.”

That can't be right, can it? Something must.

Quentin moves, and it's disorienting and a little sea-sicky for a second. It's possible Eliot is pretty drunk. Quentin presses a fierce kiss half-on and half-off Eliot's lips and says in a strange, choked voice, “I've never felt this way about anyone before.”

Eliot smiles and kisses him back the same way, only gentler. “Don't let it freak you out,” he says. “It won't feel like this forever, it's just. It's your Year of Eliot. You should try to enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I will,” Quentin says. “I really – will try.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Eliot wakes up still a little to the left of sober, sprawled on his couch with Quentin asleep on top of him. It was a very civilized sleepover, apparently, given that they're both still fully dressed – well, mostly fully dressed, although Eliot is de-tied and partially unbuttoned, and Quentin's lost his belt somewhere, his pants loosened just enough for Eliot's hand to fit partway down the back of them. Eliot sighs, watching the dust motes float through the morning light streaming in from his window, and wonders on a scale from 0 to 100, how likely is he to hurl if he tries to sit up.

He settles at 12. Good odds. But he still doesn't make any move to get up, more for Quentin's sake than his own. The boy looks so peaceful, and Eliot feels inclined to indulge him a little longer – and indulge himself, he admits, as he lets his thumb stroke back and forth over the smooth, warm skin at the small of Quentin's back.

It doesn't last long. The alarm on Quentin's phone goes off at eight (it's the Imperial March, because of course it is). It's Friday, after all.

Quentin flails around in confusion for a bit until he locates his phone, and Eliot concentrates on lying very still while also providing an anchoring arm so that Q doesn't entirely slide off the sofa. “Fuck me,” Q mutters when he manages to silence it at last, but it's not the good kind of _fuck me_. He finally seems to register Eliot's existence, pushing up a little to blink squintily at him. Eliot can almost watch the volume slowly come up in Quentin's brain, supplying him with the answers to all his questions. “Holy shit,” Quentin says scratchily. “I feel....”

“Bad?” Eliot supplies when it seems like Quentin is stuck for real.

“Not fucking good,” Quentin agrees. “Holy _shit_ , how drunk was I last night?”

“Medium drunk,” Eliot says. Although he's judging by his own standards, not Quentin's, so.

Quentin begins the delicate process of levering himself up; Eliot can't even guess what Q's number is, but he looks like it's significantly higher than 12. He pauses and frowns, squinting, and says, “Did I manage to piss off Margo last night, or was that a terrible nightmare?”

“Well....”

With a pitiful groan, Quentin seems to give up on verticality, and perhaps life in general. He makes himself comfortable on top of Eliot again, tucking his chin under to rest his head squarely on Eliot's chest. “Can I buy my way out of it with flowers, or was this more of a hard-labor kind of offense?”

“It wasn't that bad,” Eliot reassures him, stroking his hair. “You were being a little melancholy over your ex, and Margo can get fighty when she's vodka-drunk. She thought you were. Hurting my feelings or whatever.”

Quentin brings a hand up to play with the loose end of Eliot's tie, then the open collar of his shirt. “Was I?” he asks softly.

“No,” Eliot says. “No, I mean-- We've all been there. Getting over someone is a process, it doesn't happen overnight. I'm not going to take a basic law of the universe personally.”

Quentin moves his head so that his lips brush low against Eliot's throat. “Law of the universe, huh?” he murmurs. “Very scientific. Time plus distance plus fantastic rebound sex with your wickedest, most seductive neighbor....”

“Wicked, seductive – there was a third thing, wasn't there?” Eliot says, feigning innocence. “Remind me, what was that third thing?”

“Too bad about that low self-esteem of yours,” Quentin teases, nipping at Eliot's collarbone. Eliot chuckles. “Okay, yeah,” Quentin relents, his lips finding the side of Eliot's neck and tracking upwards. “Extra credit for the third thing.”

“Ooo, Professor Coldwater,” Eliot lilts. “Does this mean I'm going to pass your class after all?”

“We'll see,” Quentin says before kissing him. It's a good kiss, which means they're definitely closer to still drunk than to genuinely hungover. “You taste terrible,” Quentin says when he pulls away.

“That's so weird,” Eliot says dryly, “because you taste like strawberry fucking shortcake.”

Quentin laughs and nudges Eliot's cheekbone with his nose before taking a second stab at pulling himself up to a sitting position. “Speaking of class,” he says. “I have to go – act like an adult or something.”

“Unfortunate,” Eliot says. “Very poor life choices on your part.”

“If you mean the life choice to get just absolutely hammered on mystery cocktails and existential despair on a school night, yes.”

He's still speaking lightly, but it plucks a bit of a wrong note to Eliot's ear. “You didn't seem – despairing,” Eliot says.

Quentin glances at him sidelong and rubs the back of his own neck. “I didn't mean. No, it was – nice, I had a good time. Forget it, that was a shitty thing to say. I'm, I'm. Grateful. For everything. I really am, El.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, because what else can he say? He squeezes Quentin's arm just above the wrist and says, “Well, if you want to come back here after your class, it's Hangover Morning. I'll make sure your name's on the list.”

“Do I want that?” Quentin says warily.

“Oh, Hangover Morning is fabulous,” Eliot assures him. “Margo fries these peanut butter and bacon sandwiches, and we eat them with mimosas and watch movies we've seen ten million times already. It's very decadent and exclusive – the dress code is pajamas only, silk at preference.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin says. “El, I love you, but if you come near me with alcohol for the next 48 hours, I'm suing.”

“Go away,” Eliot says loftily, flinging his arm out in the vague direction of the front door. “You have offended the gods. Come back when you're ready to atone for your transgressions.”

Quentin collects his shoes and belt and tie, then leans down to kiss Eliot's forehead before he goes.

It's going to take a little time, Eliot recognizes, before he's ready to face the world – even before he's ready to face Hangover Morning – so he gives himself the time he needs. He watches dust motes, and drowses, and rests his hand over his heart, trying not to tense up, trying to let the sensation float through him like dust through light. He knows what an _I love you_ like that means, and what it doesn't. He really does know. But his heart is far stupider than Eliot is, and it needs time to be led gently toward reality.

The reality where this is Quentin's rebound, his experiment with being spontaneous and hedonistic. The reality where Quentin is a student in a college town, and his five-year plan is still to get a doctorate and then go – wherever Doctors of Philosophy go. The reality where he's always going to be part of Eliot's life, but life won't always...look like this.

Life, in fact, won't look like this for more than two weeks, because two weeks from today Eliot is supposed to appear in family court so that a judge can tell him and his wife they're legally allowed to raise a child. So. No more nights out drinking themselves sentimental and a little fighty. No more Hangover Mornings or leisurely, gossipy Saturday brunch. Maybe it won't immediately mean no more waking up to Quentin in his arms, but certainly it means no more...letting himself get lost in the drama of it all.

He doesn't know how he feels about all of that reality all at once, so he takes his time.

It's going to be okay. It is what it is.

He dozes off once or twice in the morning light, telling himself that the sensation of falling isn't good or bad, as long as you're careful how you hit the ground.

He wakes up to a hard flick against his foerhead, followed by the scrape of a fingernail, and Margo's raspy hangover voice saying, “Move over, you selfish fuck, it's my couch, too.”

Eliot reaches out to grasp the back of the couch and lever himself into what's intended to be a sitting position, but he has to settle for a dramatic recline that only takes up half the couch. Margo drops down beside him in a swirl of silk robe and says, “I won't do a goddamn thing until I get my first mimosa. Where's your snugglebunny? I was going to put him to work.”

“He has class on Fridays,” Eliot says.

“And he actually went?”

“He's the teacher.”

Margo scoffs. “Well, then I hate to break it to you, but you're up. Shower first, you're gross, and then bring me a drink.”

“I don't think I like marriage at all,” Eliot says, forcing himself to his feet.

“People don't do it because they like it,” Margo says. “Don't be a child.”

In order to preserve family harmony, and also because he's pretty hungry, Eliot keeps his shower short; Hangover Morning is not the time to stand on ceremony when it comes to grooming. His skin care has been abysmal recently, and this seems like a good day for a scrub and deep moisturizing mask, but after food. Hell, maybe they'll get out of the house later in the afternoon and get facials together, or a whole spa package. Maybe they can get a honeymoon rate somewhere.

Eliot chooses his burgundy silk pajamas, grateful that Margo went with white this morning, giving him a full palette of coordinating options to choose from. Sometimes she wears peach or mint green, and he supposes those colors are soothing and all, but they don't go with anything he owns, and who needs that stress on Hangover Morning.

It's almost ten when Eliot opens the Prosecco, and just as the cork pops out, the front door opens. “Ow,” Quentin says mildly, lingering in the doorway. “Way too loud.”

“Hi,” Eliot says. “I thought you had--”

“I did,” Quentin says as he shows himself in. “I put out a sign-in sheet, promised everyone who showed up double participation points, and gave them a reading day. I've had teachers do that before, and you know, I never fully realized it was because they were drunk as shit.”

“A lot of growing up,” Eliot says wisely, “is realizing how many adults you knew were drunk as shit all along. Want a drink?”

Quentin flips him off. “I was told there would be bacon?”

“Do you deserve bacon?” Margo asks him.

“Oof,” he says. “Probably – not? But can, um – can I invoke the Great Bird of Peace?”

It must mean something to Margo, who snorts a grudging little laugh and makes a regal gesture, her arm lolling off the edge of the couch. “Fine. Apologize to Eliot and you can stay.”

Quentin did already apologize – this morning is hazy, but Eliot's pretty sure he did – but he gives Eliot a cute, conspiratorial little smile and comes up to the breakfast bar, leaning intently over it and saying, “You are beautiful and powerful beyond compare, and I am already forever in your debt, Eliot the Spectacular. All I can do is throw myself on your mercy.”

“Hm,” Eliot says, leaning over to meet him in a quick kiss. “I do feel a little bit sorry for you. Okay, you can stay, but you don't get a movie vote.”

_Vote_ is a little bit misleading; the Hangover Morning process of movie selection is an undemocratic trial-by-combat, or at least by rock-paper-scissors. “You suck,” Margo tells Eliot as he gently smashes his fist on top of her scissors.

“Cry me a river,” he says. “Nobody wants to watch _Die Hard_ again anyway.”

“I might,” Quentin says, and to Eliot's disbelieving look he says, “I like _Die Hard._ I watch it every year.”

“Ugh,” Margo says. “Tell me you're not one of those pretentious douchebags who thinks they're clever for noticing that it's a Christmas movie.”

“No, I, uh. I watch a – an Alan Rickman marathon every year on the weekend closest to his birthday?”

“Oh, sweet boy,” Eliot says sadly, pushing both of them over so he has room on the couch and passing Margo's drink across Quentin to her. “The fact that you think that's better....”

“No, it's better,” Margo says begrudgingly. “I mean, it's _ridiculous_ , but at least it's distinctive.”

“It's fun,” Quentin protests. “It's _Die Hard_ and _Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves_ and _Galaxy Quest_ and _Dogma_ and the Harry Potter of my choosing. It's – fun.” Eliot kisses him, not because he's won over by whatever quirky crush Q has on the late Alan Rickman (and no _Sense and Sensibility_? seriously?), but just – because he's right there, and he smells like that damn gingery bodywash that Eliot has come to associate with damp and cuddly post-sex Quentin.

Years ago when they started doing Hangover Mornings – Eliot's pretty sure it wasn't when he first moved into the Brentwood place with Margo and her friends, but after they moved to that attic apartment, just the two of them and that fucking cockatiel they agreed to pet-sit and then got stuck keeping – Eliot's pick was always _Moulin Rouge_ , but he's onto _The Greatest Showman_ now. It's not a better movie, but it's soothing in a way he can't explain.

Well, okay, he can't _entirely_ explain. “I want you to know,” Eliot says seriously as the three of them pass a box of Captain Crunch back and forth, dipping their grubby hands directly into it, “that I would leave both of you in a heartbeat for Zac Efron.”

“We know, baby,” Margo says.

“Story of my life,” Quentin says. “I'm always getting dumped for guys who can tap dance.”

“They do have the two most important qualities one looks for in a mate: impeccable rhythm and strong thighs.” Eliot took a year and a half of tap lessons when he was underemployed and resume-building in LA, and he ended up dropping out of the class because he fucked his teacher and things got awkward. Regrettable, but dear god, those thighs.

Quentin has the nerve to scoff, but before long he's seduced by the lush too-muchness of _The Greatest Showman_ , or at least with Zac and his forbidden love. By the time Rewrite the Stars comes along, Quentin is using Eliot's burgundy-silk-clad shoulder where he's curled up to blot the mistiness out of his eyes. Eliot doesn't particularly mind.

Margo makes the fried sandwiches and they switch over to mineral water, because they're reckless, but they're not insane. Eliot does all the things that Hangover Mornings were made for – eats and rehydrates and lounges and complains and dozes and basically tricks himself into forgetting why he felt the need to get quite that drunk in the first place. Although his motives this time were – pure-ish. Much of last night is still a blur, but he remembers that he was having fun for once, not trying to kill off a platoon of his most self-sabotaging brain cells.

Eventually Margo feels enough like a living being to go for her daily run. Eliot is feeling slightly delicate both emotionally and digestively, and simultaneously like he's had too little and too much sleep, but none of it really matters, because he has Quentin's head in his lap, Eliot's fingers carding carefully through Quentin's hair. “Hi,” Eliot says, a few minutes after the door closes behind Margo.

Quentin smiles up at him. “Hi.”

“I'm glad you came back,” Eliot admits.

He doesn't know what answer he's expecting to that, but it's not the one he gets. “I thought I needed to. It wasn't – going to be a good day for me to be alone.”

Eliot adds a little scrape of fingernails over Quentin's scalp to the mix, because he knows Q loves that. _You want to talk about it?_ he should probably say, but-- Whatever, he's not Quentin's therapist. “Did you like the movie?” he asks instead.

“You know, I liked it better than I thought I would,” Quentin admits. “If you can let go of how creepy the premise is, it's kind of charming.”

“The premise is creepy?”

“Well, yeah,” Quentin says, as if surprised that Eliot is unaware of that. “PT Barnum's not, like, these people's tap-dancing fairy godfather. He was an old white guy who got extremely rich displaying other humans like they were exhibits. I don't know if it was a great idea to make a big romantic movie about how much they all loved him, but if you're going to make that movie, this one had good music. And Zendaya. I like her.”

Something is wrong with Quentin's argument; it lodges like a splinter in Eliot's brain somewhere, small but uncomfortable. He can't quite get hold of it. “It's not...really a movie about Barnum,” Eliot says, sounding the words out like he's translating from some alien language. “I mean. Not – he's not real.”

“No, I get that it's pretty fictionalized, but there's no--”

“No,” Eliot says. That's not it. “I'm not saying – that the movie Barnum isn't like the real Barnum. I mean, sure, okay. But I'm saying – the movie's not even about movie-Barnum. It's – what's that word. Like a metaphor, but – more like a whole bunch of metaphors kind of – woven together.”

He has Quentin's attention now; his normally soft dark eyes search Eliot's face, alert and curious. “An allegory, you mean?”

“Yeah, yes. Sorry, I blanked for a second – I'm just the pretty one. But right, it's an allegory. It's not about PT Barnum, it's about show business.”

“Okay,” Quentin says thoughtfully. “I see what you mean. So the Barnum character really just plays out this drama about low art and high art and business.”

Closer. Eliot can feel it between his fingers now. “You make it sound like it's teaching some moral lesson, and – it's not. I mean, maybe don't be a dick to your wife and kids, but that's not. It's not trying to get you to believe something, it just-- It's about feeling the way it feels, in the beginning. I don't know, forget it.”

“No, I don't want to forget it,” Quentin says. “I want to know.”

“I can't explain it.”

“I think you can,” Quentin says, gentle but inexorable. “Take your time. If you love it, then I want to see it the way you see it.”

Take his time. Eliot takes a minute to gather the impressions, the bits of the movie that always stay with him, and he turns them over in the back of his throat while he plays with Q's hair. Waits for them to magically turn themselves into words. “Have you ever been onstage?” he asks, half playing for time, half hoping Quentin will meet him halfway. “Like – performed anything?”

Quentin frowns a little, considering. “Not exactly. I guess in college I figured out magic was a decent party trick, and I'd do coin tricks and stuff for people. But like on a stage, a big show – no, I'm not exactly cut out for that.”

“It's a weird feeling at the end,” Eliot says. “The curtain call. The applause. All of a sudden, people act like you have some kind of superpower, this – magic act, I guess, in a way, that they're delighted to find out you can do. But the weird thing is...it's the same thing you had yesterday, and none of them were fucking clapping yesterday, you know? Because yesterday there was something wrong with you. You were distracted or lazy or too sensitive or too dramatic. Or you didn't try hard enough. Or you tried too hard. Or you looked wrong, or you looked _at_ someone wrong. And then one day, _you_ don't change, but they do, and suddenly you're not _sensitive_ , you're _artistic_ , and you're not a _drama queen_ , you're an _entertainer_. I don't know, there's – something. A high you get off of it. Power. You control someone else's experience. They come to you and ask you to sing or play the piano or do something for them. Fuck, they paid to get in the door, you know? And you own the world, for a little while.” All of it can disappear in a second, Eliot knows that. But still, but still. “I think the movie – doesn't want you to learn something, it just wants you to get a contact high. That feeling, that's why the movie is the way it is, why it's so messy – everything noisy and the big lights and it's happening all at once, no time to think, you just do it the way you rehearsed. People...on their feet cheering, not because you're suddenly some big hero, but because of all the same things that were always wrong with you. It's not the message. It's just the feeling.”

Somehow Quentin's gotten hold of Eliot's free hand, sliding his thumb into the hollow of Eliot's palm. “I never understood why you'd quit something you obviously loved so much,” he says softly.

This one Eliot has had time to work out the answer to. “It's a hard life,” he says. “I just.... I guess it was too hard for me.”

“Do you even know how smart you are?” Quentin asks, an odd note of frustration in his voice, as if he's already made up his mind that the answer is _no_ and he's not pleased about it.

“Too smart for my own good,” Eliot says glibly, and then he wishes he hadn't. It's not his thought, and those aren't his words. He doesn't believe any of his father's lies anymore, but sometimes in unguarded moments, he hears them come out of his mouth, and he feels gross for a minute – bodysnatched, possessed. “I can be smart when it's important,” he says by way of distracting himself, “but most men don't like it.” Quentin looks wary, sensing a joke, and Eliot bounces his knee lightly to jostle Quentin. “ _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_. You philistine.”

“You have so much to teach me,” Quentin says, and Eliot takes that as the thousand-foot-wide opening that it is and wraps his hand around Quentin's, helping pull him up to sitting so they can kiss. Quentin tastes like peanut butter now, and it's a vast improvement over this morning.

Quentin swings a leg over, and when he's kneeling up over Eliot's lap, Eliot has to tip his head back to reach Quentin's mouth. He finds that he likes it a whole damn lot – likes Quentin's hand wrapping behind his neck and his other hand firm and warm underneath Eliot's jaw as their tongues nudge back and forth against each other as Quentin's hair swings loose around their faces. Eliot settles his own hands on Quentin's hips and closes his eyes, and god this is so good, has just making out with anyone ever been _this good_?

_Don't stop_ , he wants to say when Quentin leans away, a few stray hairs sticking briefly to Eliot's slickened lip. _Don't stop, I don't want to hit the ground, not yet...._

Instead what he says is, “We should go to your place. More private.”

“Mm,” Quentin says, brushing a tender little kiss over Eliot's temple. “You have work tonight, don't you?”

“In a couple of hours.”

“Well, I think what I'm going to do,” Quentin says, slow and playful, running the lapel of Eliot's pajamas between his fingertips, “is advocate for my needs right now, and tell you that I don't love the idea of you jumping up and running off when the sex is over. I'd actually rather wait til you're done with work, and then you can spend the night.”

Sweet boy. “It'll be late,” Eliot says.

Quentin smiles. “I'll take a nap.”

Of course Eliot intends to give in, but he still can't help saying, “Are you open to negotiations? Because I had this very clear artistic vision for the rest of the afternoon....”

“Oh, it was  _artistic_ , was it?” Quentin laughs.

“Don't sell yourself short, sweet boy. Art is subjective, but you with my cock in your mouth? Masterpiece.”

Quentin acknowledges that with a quiet groan and a brief, deep kiss. “Patience,” he says, his voice thin and breathless when he pulls away again. “Trust me, I'll make it worth your while.”

 

Obviously he low-key thinks about it all evening at work – not obsessively, the Friday night crowds don't afford him the luxury of extended rumination – but it's there on some level, the sense that Quentin wants them to take their time tonight, that he might be planning something _worth Eliot's while_.

It's new for Eliot. He's dated people before, he's not _completely_ feckless, but – not like this, he's not familiar with how the casual ease of a sure thing feels when it's combined with the low and slow simmer of fascination. He feels like he knows Quentin too well to be this caught up in him still, but at the same time he feels like he's just starting to scratch the surface.

Jesus Christ. He's done, he's gone, it's over. Eliot feels like he took a fist full of pills one night and woke up to discover he bought a car or something – like it doesn't matter if he remembers what he did or why he did it, here he is with the keys in his hand and his signature on the title, and he's not sure if he's just struck the deal of the century or saddled himself with a whole fucking bunch of brand new problems. Both, maybe.

There's even a literal key involved in their relationship, which Eliot uses to let himself into Q's apartment as per the text message he got earlier. There's a warm light coming from Q's bedroom through the half-open door, and a warm light coming from somewhere center-mass in Eliot, and yes he wants to get laid, but mostly he's just so happy to leave the drunks and the assholes and the world full of strangers on the other side of the door – so damn happy to be home again at the end of a long night.

Quentin is reading in bed, cozied up in his thick blue robe like it's not still a warm September outside. Eliot comes to the side of the bed and hoists Fester out of Eliot's spot – well, in fairness, it's probably Fester's spot, a point of order that Fester yells at him until Eliot rubs his nose firmly, at which point Fester burbles one more disgruntled noise but permits himself to be set on the floor. Eliot starts to unbutton his vest, and Quentin interrupts him quickly with, “Wait, don't. Can you just – take your shoes off and lie down?”

Eliot wastes a second trying to make sense of it, before he processes the look on Quentin's face – the same shy-stubborn look he used to have most of the time in bed, before he kind of calmed down – and he realizes that this isn't about making sense. It's an odd kink for Quentin to have – he's a little too much of a voyeur for Eliot to have seen this coming, but it's tame enough. Endearing. Eliot toes off his shoes and gets into bed, resisting even the urge to unbuckle his belt. If Q wants to be in charge of this, Q can be in charge of all of it.

“So, I had this artistic vision,” Quentin says conversationally, settling on his knees over Eliot's thighs.

Not that Quentin's still not in charge, but Eliot's certainly not going to _play dead_ ; he lets his hands wander along the edges of Q's robe, nudging them inside to brush the warm skin of his rib cage, then his hips. “Dying to hear it,” he says, just to have something to say. The sash around Quentin's waist, only loosely looped over itself to begin with, is rapidly coming undone, and Quentin is shifting restlessly under Eliot's touch.

God, he's pretty. Beautiful, honestly.

“I was thinking – you do so much for me. What if, what if tonight you just – didn't have to do anything at all?”

“Mm,” Eliot says, only half-listening as he nudges Quentin's robe off, admiring the solid curve of Quentin's bicep as the robe falls far enough to get caught at his elbows. Quentin's cock is full and flushed; it looks beautiful from this angle – delicious, really, and Eliot thinks he probably doesn't put it in his mouth nearly often enough. “I am very lazy.” Eliot strokes idly over Quentin's hip, hand drifting back to cup his ass, and his fingers brush-- “Well, hello,” he says. His finger probes more carefully over the smooth circle, and yes, that is absolutely the base of some kind of plug. Quentin gives him a very slightly smug half-smile, and Eliot goes briefly dizzy from the rush of blood into his dick as all the implications fall into place. “Were you just lying in bed reading _Fillory and_ fucking _Further_ with this inside you?”

“What? _No_ ,” Quentin says, laughing with genuine amazement. “No, you pervert, it's a _children's_ series. There's no sex in Fillory. This is N.K. Jemisin, she actually just won--”

“ _Baby_ ,” Eliot says. “Focus?”

“Sorry, yeah, sorry. I just, I wanted to take care of everything ahead of time. So I was ready for you.”

Eliot squeezes Quentin's ass and says, “You realize I don't actually think of prepping you as an inconvenience, right? It's what we libertines like to call _foreplay_.”

Very obviously Quentin did not realize that, and he looks stricken at his own miscalculation. “Oh. I didn't think--”

Eliot puts his fingers against Q's lips to quiet him. “Let me be clear: this is extremely hot. Just not because you're saving me the hassle of having my fingers in you, which is actually a delightful experience. Kind of a hobby of mine, one might say.”

“I may not have thought it through,” Quentin admits.

“No, but you did. That's the part I like: you thought of this, you set it all up. I know you did it to be good to me, that's very sweet, but – it's not my fantasy, darling. I think it's yours. Isn't it?” The flush across Q's cheekbones deepens a little in the lamplight, and he's staring somewhere around Eliot's tie, unable to make eye contact. Eliot palms the side of Q's face and says, “Spoiler alert. We are definitely doing this, whatever it is, so relax, okay? I just need to understand it a little better. Tell me what you were thinking about while you got yourself slicked up and open for me.”

His breath catches a little, but he licks his lips and makes himself look up at Eliot's face. “I know you're going to laugh, but could you, like – not laugh a _lot_? I promise, I already know how's it going to sound. I can't help it.”

“I won't laugh at all,” Eliot says seriously. He knows it's going to be slightly ridiculous, and almost certainly nerdy as shit, but he also knows that desire never feels ridiculous when you're in the middle of it, and he knows what it feels like to have those vulnerable parts of you displayed for the amusement of others. It's a tiny but permanent scar that Eliot has no intention of allowing to form on whatever this is they have between them.

Quentin's fingers trace out the scooped neckline of Eliot's vest, then the faceted shape of its top button. “You always seem so – um, regal? The way you dress, the way you walk, just – everything about you. And I guess I, I think of you that way sometimes. Like you're some kind of.... God, it sounds so stupid.”

“It doesn't,” Eliot says. Fuck, he spent enough years workshopping this character; he'd be pissed if people _didn't_ notice there was something rarefied about his demeanor.

Slightly emboldened, Quentin manages to finish his thought. “Sometimes I think of you like, like kind of this – nobleman type, who can just – wave his hand and have whoever he wants brought up to him.”

“You mean like a sex slave?” Eliot asks.

“No, not like--” Quentin huffs. “Okay, that makes it sound really creepy. I'm not like a _prisoner_ , I – probably would want to. Like... I mean, I'm sure it's an honor. To be chosen.”

“Hm. Okay. So I saw you – working in the stables or baking a cake or whatever it is you do, and I picked you out from all the others, and I absolutely had to have you.” Eliot settles firm, grounding hands against Quentin's chest, rubbing gentle circles there to bleed off the buzz of nervous energy that's making Quentin tremble. “And when I want something, I get it.”

Quentin nods, pulling the robe off his wrists and discarding it. “And you're gorgeous,” he says hoarsely, earnestly. “And I want – I want to impress you, I want you to let me come back again after this. So I'm gonna....” Cautiously, as if testing out the concept, Quentin reaches with both hands for Eliot's belt and begins to pull it through the buckle.

Eliot lets his smile curl up, as arrogant and entitled as he possibly can, which is pretty arrogant and entitled, given that he learned this technique observing Margo's old friends, who were the actual worst. “You're gonna show me something I don't see every day?” he suggests, stroking roughly over Quentin's nipple and then lighter along his ribs. “You have the body for it, but do you think you have the imagination? Well, go on, then, you can at least try. Hold my attention.”

Quentin gives him a little nod, acceptance of the challenge or affirmation that Eliot is right for the role, and he turns his focus to Eliot's belt, and the fly on his trousers. Eliot thinks he understands better now why he's supposed to be fully dressed and Quentin's not: nakedness is vulnerability, and they're pretending tonight that all of that belongs to Quentin and none to Eliot, which is.... Well. It's just a game, after all. The whole point is that it's not true.

He's not sure he understands the thrill Quentin gets from pretending to be even more vulnerable than he really is – like the world doesn't provide enough opportunities for that on its own – but really, thank the Dark Lord for sweet, submissive boys who crave that kind of thing, because where would Eliot be without them?

Well. _Without him_ would be more accurate. Eliot's taste in sweet, submissive boys is getting...markedly less plural than it ever was before. Quentin Coldwater, after all, is – singular.

And he was really onto something with that business with the plug, because as soon as he gets Eliot's cock free, he's drawing the plug out of himself and moving up and sinking down, a long, luxurious blur like colorful lights as you speed past on a motorcycle – none of it distinct, all of it exhilarating. Eliot throws his head back and grinds his sharp gasp behind his teeth, because he can't make the noises his body is dying to make, not and stay in character as this – untouchable thing that Quentin half-believes he is, that Quentin is wildly attracted to.

He can't say the things....

It's really not in character, is it? Not tonight, certainly. Not ever, maybe.

Quentin's fingers brush Eliot's cheek, and it feels like he's taking a bit more liberty than the rules of this game seem to allow. Eliot catches Quentin's hand and bites at the pad of his thumb, then places his hand firmly on Eliot's chest beside the other hand. He lifts his hips just enough to remind Quentin what they're here for, and Quentin starts to move.

Eliot has some notion of folding his hands behind his head while he's letting himself be serviced, but when he tries to pull away, Quentin hooks his thumb firmly around Eliot's two smallest fingers, locking their hands together where they rest over Eliot's heart.

The fuck itself isn't quite ideal – too shallow, a little labored – Eliot could do a lot better if he bent his knees and planted his feet, and even that's not quite what he actually wants, which is to roll Quentin over on his back and just _give_ it to him. But Eliot can tell by Quentin's face that it's pushing the buttons Quentin needed pushed, and as he keeps going he develops a snaky little roll to his hips that speaks volumes in its quiet confidence. Eliot wants more than anything to encourage that right now, so he drops into his best sex growl and says, “Look at you, sweet boy. You were made for this, weren't you?”

“For you,” Quentin says, short of breath and sparking defiance from his eyes. “I'm, it's – for you – anything for you.”

“That's right,” Eliot says, dipping his free thumb into the warm crease of Quentin's leg and groin. “You fit me so well.”

“So big,” Quentin sighs out, and Eliot doesn't know if that's the kind of flattery one deploys with the jaded princeling who holds your fate in his hands or if that's actually Quentin talking, but far be it from Eliot to complain either way. It's always nice to hear regardless of circumstances.

“I know,” Eliot purrs. “But you're taking it so nicely.” He runs his palm over the side of Quentin's neck, skin against skin with the film of Quentin's sweat in between. “Working so hard for me, I know, I know you are. And it feels good?” Quentin nods, quick and jerky. He's getting closer now, his muscles tightening, his eyes glazing over, but he still hasn't asked for Eliot to touch him – hasn't asked for anything, actually.

Fuck this, Eliot can't – he's done his bit, okay, and he _needs_ \-- “Shh, relax,” he murmurs by way of warning, taking hold of the back of Quentin's head to protect it from accidental contact with the wall and tumbling them both over. It's predictably an awkward tangle of limbs for a moment, but Quentin knows what to do, has spent the better part of the summer learning exactly what Eliot wants and needs, and he spreads his legs and pulls his knees up against Eliot's sides, fingers grasping at Eliot's back, whining soft and desperate as Eliot grips the sheets in one hand and fucks into him. “Let me, let me,” Eliot says stupidly, because Quentin is already _very much_ letting him – inviting him, actively encouraging him. Vaguely, Eliot worries that his clothes are going to rub friction burns against all that exposed skin of Quentin's, but he doesn't worry enough to change his approach.

“ _Kiss_ me,” Quentin demands, which is a much more sensible request, and Eliot grants it without hesitation, which just kind of figures. No matter how hard they try to stick to the script, Quentin can't help asking for what he wants and Eliot can't help saying yes.

None of Eliot's extensive experience with sweet, submissive boys has prepared him to be so utterly fucking owned by this very singular one.

He remembers to be regal just long enough to grab for Quentin's wrists and pin them to the mattress before Eliot's hips stutter out of his control and he's coming hard inside Quentin's welcoming body, biting roughly into Quentin's shoulder because the alternative is saying something that probably hits their relationship like a goddamn nuclear bomb.

Eliot's not sure what, exactly. He hasn't let the words slither into his brain yet, but he knows his body can speak for itself sometimes, and that motherfucker is not to be trusted.

Quentin is still making short, sharp noises, the kind that Eliot used to mistake for discomfort until he realized they were the good kind of discomfort, Quentin dropping from the top of the roller coaster, helpless until the fall is finished. Eliot kisses his neck and mumbles something that's meant to soothe, something like _it's okay, you're almost there_ or _I've got you_ , and he just holds on, letting Quentin's tremors turn into shudders turn into orgasm and release.

Eliot lifts his head and looks down from the distance of only inches at this – person, this stranger who's interlocked through every single piece of Eliot's life, and he feels so familiar and so unknowable. Eliot has no idea what to say to him. He's floating on a wordless wave of amazement.

Quentin puts his hands on either side of Eliot's face and asks, soft and intense, “That was – good, wasn't it? For you?”

Unsure whether he's still supposed to – he doesn't know who he's supposed to – who is he right now? – Eliot closes his eyes briefly, then gathers himself enough to say, “So good. You were so good.” Quentin's smile blossoms like golden light, and Eliot supposes Q might have been right all along about everyone having a praise kink.

Neither of them are good for much, but Quentin has slightly more incentive to get himself out of bed and get cleaned up. He doesn't really say anything about the barebacking; they talked about it briefly a few days ago when Eliot's test results came back clean, so it couldn't have been a huge shock, but Eliot still feels slightly guilty, because it's not something he would normally spring on someone. It just – felt like the right call, in the moment.

He doesn't twig to why that is until he's stripped out of his clothes and wiped up and Quentin comes back from the bathroom. Quentin puts on the boxers he normally sleeps in and climbs directly into Eliot's arms, nudging up under his chin, and asks with low, satisfied amusement, “Is sleeping with married men always this hot? It's my first time.”

“Mmhm,” Eliot says. “You should make a habit of it.”

So in retrospect it seems kind of obvious, why this week in particular Eliot would feel so intent on pushing further inside Q's boundaries, why it felt necessary to mark him as Eliot's in a way that Eliot rarely, rarely does with anyone – and if you only count the sober, on-purpose times, you could downgrade that  _rarely_ to  _never_ .

Quentin tilts up into a delicate, lingering kiss. “I'm sorry,” he says, to Eliot's astonishment. “I kind of made this all about me, I guess, and I really – I really did want to do something that would be special for you.”

Eliot tucks Q's hair back and nuzzles his ear. “No need to be sorry. I saw what I wanted and I took it, didn't I?”

Quentin groans a little, muffling the sound in the crook of Eliot's neck. “I'll never understand why you chose me,” he says, still pressed so close that Eliot can feel the shape of the words as Quentin's lips brush his skin.

“Does it matter?” Eliot has no idea whether or not they're in character anymore. That, too, probably no longer matters. “I have you now. You'll warm my bed for as long as I want, and I'll take care of you.” It's technically Quentin's bed; technically Eliot doesn't even  _have_ a bed, but that's neither here nor there. Dramatic license.

It's roughly thirty-six hours after Eliot's wedding when he falls asleep with Quentin in a circle of lamplight with  _let me, let me, kiss me, I have you, I'll take care_ humming in the air all around them like unbreakable vows.

 

It's an intense couple of weeks after that, including one entire Saturday in Crate & Barrel that almost ends in Eliot's premature divorce over benches versus chairs for their new dining room table (because city girls think things that look barn-like are cute, and people who used to shovel shit out of barns, not so much), but Kady gives them gold stars on their revamped, kid-friendly apartment, now with fifty percent less hard liquor and one dining room table – with benches,  _naturellment_ .

Eliot picks up shifts on his days off to pad out the slush fund; according to the soul-crushing family finance meeting they had, Eliot's tips are basically their weekly grocery budget, and Margo can cover everything else if they never do anything fun for the rest of their lives. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it's really sinking in on Eliot that with only one full-time job in the family, the concept of a budget is no longer aspirational adulting; their budget is an actual binding document that will dictate the course of their lives from now on.

Ted's tuition is covered for the whole year already; the Catholics keep a few scholarships in their back pocket for adorable wards of the state like Teddy, so Eliot has to be grudgingly pleased by that, even if he's already worried about next year, not to mention how goddamn expensive these stupid little uniform blazers are. But next year is next year; they'll figure something out. Margo has been in her job for two years, and she has the experience to apply for administrative positions at least one and maybe two salary tiers higher than the one she's in now, so maybe something perfect will open up between now and then. And Quentin's been putting the money that Carla always refused to take from him into a college fund for Ted, but the thing is there  _is_ money; Q inherited – Eliot's not sure how much, but a comfortable amount from his father.

Quentin would write them a much larger check if they asked for it, but Eliot and Margo are in agreement: they're the ones who had a choice when it comes to Ted, and they're the ones who should be on the hook for his upkeep. So Quentin just gives them enough for school expenses and some clothes and so forth, and it takes some pressure off without Eliot feeling like he's sucking the life out of Quentin's nest egg, which god knows Quentin's probably going to need in the future, as an aspiring member of the humanities faculty at a university yet-to-be-named.

They try to strike a similar balance with the child-care arrangements; it's a little  _too_ convenient to have free babysitting across the hall, and Eliot and Margo discuss it a lot – how much is too much to ask Quentin to help with. He has classes to teach and classes of his own to study for, and he's Ted's father but he's not Ted's  _guardian_ . If Eliot and Margo can't handle this without using Q as a crutch, they can't handle it at all.

Eliot thinks that's not outside the realm of possibility, but he's not going to be the first one to say it.

On paper, at least, they're ready.

 

The judge rules in their favor on a Friday, and the whole Pickwick clan brings Ted and his belongings over to the apartment, where Eliot and Margo serve everyone tacos and ice cream sundaes buffet-style, which is a very nice way of saying they just throw a bunch of food on the counter and try not to get trampled. Everyone helps Ted put his things away in his new room (Eliot single-handedly painted it yellow, which was the most manual labor he's had to undertake in eons, and there were a few exhausted tears, not going to lie).

Ted seems to get along fine with the Pickwicks, but he looks tired and relieved when they're finally gone. He asks Eliot if he can put on a movie; it's Eliot's very first parenting decision, he realizes in the same moment he realizes that he and Margo discussed school-night bedtimes, but not Friday bedtime. It's too late now; he can't crowdsource this decision without looking like he doesn't know what he's doing, and it feels crushingly important that he establish himself as magnanimous but also authoritative. Of course, saying literally anything would be better than saying nothing, so there's that.

“If you help me wash and dry all these dishes first,” he says, because that's – character-building, right? Staying up late on a weekend is a privilege, not a right. That seems reasonable. He's pretty sure it's reasonable.

Ted seems slightly annoyed, but he doesn't really object, and Eliot pulls the stepstool out of the utility closet for Ted to stand on while he dries, and Eliot marvels at the fact that he has just assigned his first chore, like an actual honest-to-fuck parent. Margo and Quentin both accept the whole thing as though nothing strange or messed up just happened, so they – agree? This was the right answer?

It hits Eliot all at once that  _nobody is every going to tell him the right answers_ in this new gig of his, or at least not definitively. He's just going to take wild stabs in the dark forever and worry about the consequences until he dies.

That is  _insane_ . That is an insane system, and it's no wonder that everybody's parents fuck them up. Eliot is so appalled by the whole thing that he feels a brief flutter of sympathy for his father, who was astoundingly ill-equipped to be a single parent to a sad, sensitive three-year-old, and probably could've used some fucking help himself.

It's a  _brief_ flutter, but Eliot definitely feels it for a second there.

Cleverly, Margo talks Ted into two episodes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on YouTube instead of a movie. If Ted realizes he's being tricked into going to bed earlier he doesn't say anything, but truthfully he seems pretty tired, curled against Margo's arm on the couch.

Margo takes point on bedtime, which is something they did discuss in advance, since Eliot is in charge of getting the kid out of bed and to school on time every day, plus picking him up after school, and getting him to swimming lessons and counseling once a week, and making sure everyone eats dinner, which they can no longer afford to have delivered every night, so he's going to have to make it out of ingredients via some type of recipe or something. It's not a small number of things being added to Eliot's portfolio, and he knows Margo still has a full-time job, but he figures she can make sure the kid puts on pajamas and brushes his teeth. That's not too much to ask, Eliot feels.

While all that's happening, Eliot goes over to the dining table where Quentin is grading quizzes. Eliot straddles the bench facing Quentin and says in a low voice, “He's asking me what to do as though I'm in charge and how young is too young to let him know I'm basically just panicking and making things up?”

Quentin smiles slightly without looking up from his work. “Pretty sure six is too young. You're doing fine, El. The panic is normal.”

“Thanks for being here,” Eliot murmurs, leaning in for a quick kiss to Quentin's cheek.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Quentin says with a note of amusement.

At the end of the bedtime process, Margo tucks Ted and his bear into Eliot's old bed, and she lies down beside him, both of them listening to Quentin, who's settled on the floor in a beanbag chair to read the first chapter of  _The World in the Walls_ aloud. Eliot lingers in the doorway watching these three earnest little dorks, and he feels--

He doesn't know. He searches for something to compare the feeling to, and he doesn't come up with much. The warehouse rooftop under the stars, maybe – that party where he was high and fragile and naive, and Margo told him,  _oh, sweetness, what if I promise you'll be my last?_ Maybe that feeling comes close, but he's never really been able to name that one, either, so that's no help.

Eliot feels – hopeful, but also kind of – open, insubstantial. Like anything that happens could just blow through him like a breeze, and nothing is solid enough to hurt. Like he can't ever fall, because he floats.

He knows that nothing lasts. He knows it can all disappear in a heartbeat. But still, but still.

Now he can say he's had it, whatever it is.

The committee nominates Eliot to sing a lullaby, which Ted appears to view as a non-negotiable element of the bedtime process. “Requests?” Eliot asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Nana used to sing Amazing Grace,” he says.

“I don't know that one,” Eliot lies glibly. Neither Margo nor Quentin call him out on it; good to know they're all on the same page when it comes to blatant bullshit, Eliot thinks that bodes well for their collaborative parenting style. “Did she sing anything else?”

“Sometimes the one from  _The Wizard of Oz_ ,” Ted says. “Do you know that movie?”

“Oh, absolutely I do, I've been a friend of Dorothy's for ages now,” Eliot says. “You mean Somewhere Over the Rainbow?”

Indeed he does. That's well within Eliot's capabilities, and if he's a little fuzzy on the lyrics to the second verse, Ted doesn't seem to notice. At the very end Eliot happens to catch a glimpse of Q out of the corner of his eye, and the look on his face as he watches the scene playing out on the bed seems suspiciously like  _but still, but still_ ....

 

So that's it. The new normal is officially in place, and it's – fine? Good? Eliot thinks he's doing a good job, even though he still regularly has these out-of-body experiences, watching himself say things like  _put it back, we already have three kinds of cereal at home_ and  _why is this the first time I'm hearing about a field trip?_ , and waking up at the same time as Margo means they're trying to get into the bathroom around the same time, both of them with morning deadlines to meet, and that is by far the most taxing burden their relationship has ever had to endure, and he's so desperately sick of the Transformers in every single incarnation, it feels like he's been hearing about them for ten solid years, and the pick-up line after school is a unique and torturous brand of purgatory which he has to do four times a week and has actually driven Eliot right to the brink of maybe, possibly repenting for a few of his sins.

Things like that are part of the new normal – annoying things and boring things and things that make Eliot seriously wonder how anybody faces adulthood stone-cold sober – but on balance he – likes it, he supposes. He likes Ted, anyway, and Ted likes him, although probably slightly less than he likes either Margo or Quentin; Eliot figures someone has to be in third place, and of course it's going to be the guy who tells you the whole-wheat noodles taste  _exactly the same_ as the other kind, which is another blatant lie.

He finds that he likes having dominion over the kitchen; Eliot's never been much for frou-frou foodie culture, but he discovers that he has kind of a weakness for earnest suburban mommy-blogs about natural foods – the whole lifestyle just feels so clean and orderly, and the people in the comments sections are very nice when he has questions about conversion between minced and powdered ginger. Whether or not they'd be as nice if they knew that Eliot's clean and orderly weekly routine involves sodomizing his son's father, Eliot can't say and chooses not to care about. He has mini meatloaves in his life now, and that's where he's choosing to put his focus.

Margo is apparently taking this situation with the potential promotion seriously; she starts working at home on her laptop pretty often during the week, which she never did before, and a lot of weekday evenings become Margo and Quentin doing paperwork at the table while Eliot and Ted create Lego castles for the elite of the Transformer kingdom, some of whom are also dinosaurs, for reasons that Eliot refuses to internalize.

School seems to be going all right. They send a folder home with Ted regularly, containing completed assignments and art projects and whatnot. Sometimes there's a letter about lunch changes or upcoming events; at the bottom it says Parent or Guardian Signature, and Eliot has another one of those out-of-body experiences every time he uses up the whole line with  _Eliot Hanson-Waugh_ in his flowy script, because he swears he's getting away with some kind of con, and yet the rest of the world accepts it as legitimate every time.

On Tuesday night Margo works her extra flex hours and Ted has swim lessons, so Eliot drives through McDonald's for dinner, which is a secret he's far more determined to keep from his clean, orderly mommy-blog friends than the sodomy is, but look, it's cheap and you get a toy that's interesting to Ted for just about one week, so there you have it. Eliot develops a circle of mom acquaintances there, as well, a more laid-back crowd who like to discuss cocktails and eyeliner brands while they sit in the bleachers and ignore what's going on in the pool, and who clock Eliot immediately and always say  _your partner_ even after they've heard Eliot say  _my wife_ , like their brains just kind of refuse to adapt to that concept. Eliot can't hold it against them; he's not sure his brain has adapted to it yet, either, and he was at the wedding.

On Wednesdays he's back at work, and he's transitioned into a diurnal lifestyle pretty completely, so staying on his feet and alert until two in the morning is brutal, let alone getting up four hours later to take Ted to school. Twice on Thursday mornings, Eliot can't even make it up the stairs to his own bed once he gets home, falling asleep in his car as soon as he pulls back into his parking spot. None of the new normal is what Eliot would call  _glamorous_ , but that feels like a low point.

Fridays are carefully divvied up and written down in blood, or at least in Google calendar: one Friday a month is Margo's night to go out and do whatever the fuck she wants and one is Eliot's night, which leaves two nights a month to fill up with Family Bonding activities. Margo is good at finding those, always seems to have tickets to some kind of puppet theater or planetarium event, or else she's determined to roller skate – she's good at it – or bowl. She's terrible at that, but Eliot is good; he'd managed to keep that fact a secret for years because it's the kind of unglamorous he's not sure there's any coming back from, but fuck it, he could break 200 on the regular in high school because he was forced to attend youth group but they for damn sure couldn't force him to talk to anybody there, so he got good at bowling instead. Even as out of practice as he is now, he still bowls a 175. Margo calls him a fucking show-off and doesn't suggest bowling for Family Bonding again, because she's a sore goddamn loser.

Eliot keeps playing chess with Ted, and he's getting better at it slightly faster than the six-year-old is, but it's still just the most tedious fucking hobby in the world, he really thinks it's an elaborate practical joke that the other three all act like they actually care about it. Q and Margo have some kind of long-form game going on via app, and Eliot swears to god they're all going to die of old age, Ted included, and he'll still be required to hear the minutiae of this stupid chess match that they both treat like lives are at stake. Finally Eliot begs for mercy; he doesn't  _mind_ playing chess on the weekends with his kid, but surely they can mix that up a little with some kind of game that is, you know, fun to play?

That appears to be, from Quentin's point of view, the absolute sexiest thing Eliot has ever said, and Eliot winds up spending a whole Sunday afternoon at Q's favorite comic book shop, which has one entire wall packed floor-to-ceiling with more board games than Eliot knew existed. It's overwhelming for all four of them, but they immediately attract the attention and assistance of the girl who works there. Eliot thinks at first she's eager to help because Ted is cute, but it's Quentin she pays the most attention to and calls by name – of course, he's a regular customer, makes sense. She's short and curvy and college-aged, maybe mixed-race, with pink barrettes and thick-lensed pink glasses, and she and Quentin start completing each other's sentences almost immediately and then move on to communicating in startled bird noises of excitement. It's – baffling, and sort of annoying, because this was Eliot's idea, after all, and yet nobody seems even slightly interested in his opinion, or even notices as he wanders off, browsing Cthulu-themed games that are not at all age-appropriate for Ted.

Without Eliot's help, everyone else picks out two games, a for-younger-players starter version of one called Castle Panic and one called Ticket to Ride, neither of which Eliot knows anything about, but whatever, at least it's a break from fucking chess. On impulse, Eliot throws a Harry Potter-themed edition of Clue on top of the stack, because it's at least something he recognizes, and it makes him feel included. He starts to give the girl his debit card, but Quentin frowns at him and does that impossible, irresistible thing he does with his eyes and says, “Let me, I really want to.” And this shit is not cheap, so Eliot lets him hand over his credit card instead, feeling even more on edge and out of his element. He doesn't really know what his problem is, but he just wants to get out of this place.

Along with his receipt, the girl gives Quentin one of the store's business cards and tells him something Eliot's not listening to about finding out the answer to some earlier question Eliot also wasn't listening to. She grabs a pen to write on the back of the card, and Eliot immediately wants to unfurl dragon wings and sprout spikes out of every inch of his skin, and fine. He guesses now he knows what his problem is. Hooray for self-awareness.

Eliot carries the bag out and Margo holds onto Ted's hand in the parking lot, and Quentin has that goddamn card in his hand, staring at it with little lines of confusion between his eyebrows. “There are two numbers,” he says, “do you think they're changing the phone--”

“You're an idiot,” Eliot says. “That's not the store's number, it's hers.”

“Robin's?” Quentin says, and then  _finally_ , “Oh! Oh. You think...?”

“That you're an idiot?” Eliot says. “Yes, I do.”

“You really don't have to be a jerk about it,” Quentin says, dropping the card into the bag.

And, no, of course he doesn't  _have_ to. He has a wide range of options. He gives Ted his hand to help him climb up into his car seat and closes the door behind him while Margo is adjusting the straps and buckles, and when he turns around, Quentin is just standing there with his hand on the door handle, giving Eliot a quietly analytical look that Eliot doesn't really trust. Eliot knows he should just walk around the car and get in, but instead he stands there returning Quentin's look, feeling defiant even though literally no one has tried to make him do anything. “Are you going to call her?” Eliot says.

Quentin's eyebrows go up. “I – no. No, I wasn't planning on it.”

“Why not?” Eliot says. “I thought she was cute.”

Quentin just looks at him for another second or two, more like he's trying to decide if this conversation is remotely worth engaging in, rather than like he's trying to decide what to say. “I think she's a little young for me,” he finally says levelly.

Margo cracks the door and says, “You're both idiots, get in the car.”

Anyway, Castle Panic turns out to be a lot of fun, and that night Eliot goes home with Q after Ted's bedtime, and the sex is  _fantastic_ .

The new normal is, Eliot sleeps at his own apartment about half the time now, and about half the time across the hall. There's no specific pattern, no schedule for it on Google calendar or in Eliot's head, he just bases it on his mood in the moment; given how tightly scheduled the rest of Eliot's life is, it's nice to have that freedom at the end of the day to play something by ear. Sometimes Ted has night terrors and comes into the other bedroom for the company; if he wonders why sometimes it's Margo and Eliot who help him climb up into bed with them and why sometimes it's only Margo, he never asks.

Sometimes Eliot feels like he's really good at this parenting thing, and sometimes he feels overwhelmed by it, anxious and vulnerable in ways that he thought he'd left behind long ago like a shed skin.

If he were going to be brutally honest with himself, he'd say almost the exact same thing about – the situation with his love life. Whatever you want to call it.

September finishes out in the new normal, and most of October. The weather turns. Eliot's birthday rolls around, and it's so close to Halloween that Margo and Ted get him cupcakes with vampire fangs on top and make everyone wear cheap dollar-store domino masks and plastic spider rings, and they watch  _Coco_ and Margo kisses him. He's twenty-seven years old and he has – everything, really, and he tries not to think about how that only means he has everything to lose.

Sometimes people just...keep being pretty happy, right? At least based on internet blogs, it seems like that's not a completely unreasonable expectation. Eliot will never be rich or famous or a great artist or get kicked out of a fivesome in Ibiza again, but he'll – probably have this family here with him when he turns twenty-eight, too.

He could be happy next year, too. Not  _every_ year, not forever, nobody gets that, the world doesn't give you that,  _but still, but still_ .

Quentin takes his hand after they put Ted to bed, lacing their fingers together and saying with the shyness Eliot doesn't hear from him nearly so often anymore, “Can you come over? I kinda got you something.”

“I think my schedule is clear,” Eliot says.

He doesn't know what kind of  _something_ he was expecting, but it's not what he sees when Quentin leads him through the door. The big desk in the window of Quentin's condo is gone, and in its place there's a glossy black upright piano. “Is this – what?” Eliot says stupidly, hanging onto Quentin's hand like it's his only link back to reality.

“Well, you have to share it with Ted,” Quentin says. “I got it partially because he's been talking about wanting to take music lessons, and as a former elementary-school violinist, I can promise you that bad piano playing is far superior to bad strings. But – I know you used to play, too, right?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. He finally walks toward it slowly, half-convinced it's going to bolt off like a gazelle, but he sits down on the bench and lifts the lid and it's still here. He tries a few keys, and the sound rings beautifully off of the high-valuted ceiling, like a bell. “Q,” he says helplessly. “What about your desk, where is it?”

“I sold it,” Quentin says easily. “I mean, it was kind of pretentious; I use a laptop, and I do half my schoolwork at your table anyway, what did I need something like that for? And I know you don't really have space for a piano at your place, but it's, it's definitely for you, I want you to – come over whenever you want to play it. I'll stay out of your way if you want, it's just. I feel like you need... more music in your life.”

It's been awhile since Eliot played, and he doesn't have any sheet music, but he plays a few bars of whatever pops into his head that he can access through muscle memory – F ü r Elise, then Let It Be, then On the Street Where You Live, like the world's most random attempt at a mashup. He lets his hands come still on the keys when Quentin strokes his palm gently down Eliot's back. “Happy birthday,” Quentin says softly. “You just – I could never give you – what you've given me. But I hope you like it.”

He does like it, and he knows he should say so, but for some reason he can't say anything at all.

The sex that night is fantastic, too. Quentin can't sing three notes without four key changes, but the music he makes when Eliot draws him into his mouth is  _art_ .

 

The next Friday is technically Eliot's free square, but it's not like he has any special plans; he feels guilty because Margo has to fill out three forms and complete a word problem any time she wants to get laid now, and Eliot's having more and better sex than he's ever had in his life, so much good sex that he's gotten to this blasé point of  _oh, I don't know what I plan to do tonight, spend the whole time fucking, I suppose_ . It really isn't fair, and guilt is part of his motive for inviting Margo and Ted to join him and Q for an early dinner at the Indian buffet place right off campus.

Ted fucking loves trips to campus, he thinks it's a federal holiday every time Eliot picks him up and tells him that's where they're going. Between visitor parking and Quentin's office there's a student bookstore that has a sunken, sofa-filled children's book area, and on the floor underneath that, there's a coffee kiosk where Eliot can inevitably be cajoled to buy hot chocolate and a cake doughnut to split. There are always squirrels on the quad who are so jaded about humanity that they let Ted get almost close enough to touch their tails, and there are always college girls who want to fuss over Ted (it's insane how cute the kid is, Eliot assumed he was just partisan because Ted was Quentin's, but no, everyone thinks he's fucking irresistible) and touch his hair.

Q's office space is at the top of a spiral staircase, which Ted thinks could not be more of a thrill than if it were at the top of a Ferris wheel, so of course he never lets Eliot take the elevator. There are no nameplates or anything like that on his door, but there are two taped-up lists of office hours marked COLDWATER and KLINE, and a whiteboard that seems to change regularly. Right now it says in Quentin's cramped, messy handwriting, “For me, there is very little difference between magic and art. To me, the ultimate act of magic is to create something from nothing. --Alan Moore,” and in the corner a goofy but not incompetent caricature of Quentin and his long hair in a cape, pulling a startled rabbit by the ears out of a hat. Eliot takes a quick picture of it before Ted pushes the door open and dashes in – or wedges himself in, really, given how little standing room there is in this closet-shaped office – and climbs up on Q immediately, trying to tell him five things about his day at school simultaneously.

Quentin laughs and waves over his shoulder at Eliot, but he can't get the flow of information interrupted long enough to say anything. Eliot's still holding his phone in his hand, which is how he sees that he's getting a call, even though he usually keeps his phone on silent and rarely answers actual phone calls that he hasn't pre-arranged by text.

It's Margo, though, so he answers. “Where are you?” she says, short and breathless, and Eliot's stomach lurches.

“Q's office, we just got here.” It's not quite four-thirty; Eliot had planned for the three of them to walk over to Margo's building and ride to the Indian place with her when she got off at five.

“Okay, you need to come here right away,” she says. “Don't bring Teddy, tell them we'll meet them for dinner.” She's obviously trying to sound calm, which in fact has the opposite effect, because anything that makes Margo have to  _try_ to sound calm has to be fucking apocalyptic.

Still, he tries to relay the message as casually as possible, with a clipped, “Change of plans,” and Quentin gives him an odd glance but accepts the kid hand-off without asking questions.

Eliot gallops down the stairs, and he's not exactly wearing the correct shoes for running, but he's leggy and he's very good at coming up with worst-case scenarios, so he covers the ground between Quentin's building and Margo's at a pretty good clip.

The first thing he sees when he comes into the lobby of the suite in Admissions where she works is campus security. The second is Margo with her arm folded against her body and something that looks like an ice pack pressed to her wrist.

The third is-- Eliot's brain stutters and rears back and makes a grinding sound like stripped brakes, taking in the face of the man in the chair with campus cops flanking him. Eliot can't speak. His mind isn't blank, but whatever fills it doesn't include any words at all.

He turns his back on his father and focuses on Margo. “What happened?” he asks her.

“This asshole just showed up here and asked for me,” Margo says, glaring past Eliot at the asshole in question, “and when I came out of my office, he started yelling at me like a maniac about stealing his ring.” She unwraps the thing on her wrist, which on closer inspection seems like one of those cooler packs from someone's boxed lunch wrapped up in several paper towels. Her whole left wrist is ringed in angry red marks. Some of them will bruise, Eliot knows. 

He knows exactly what it looks like the day before the bruises spring up.

“I didn't even know who he was until security got here and checked his ID,” she adds softly, almost like she's apologizing to Eliot. Like this is her fault and not Eliot's.

“You're okay,” he murmurs, and kisses the top of her head. He really means  _I'm glad you're okay_ , but he's still barely verbal, and two words at a time is his maximum.

Eliot turns around, and the shorter, balder campus cop says, “So I guess you know this guy?”

“He's my father,” Eliot says. Three whole words. Good for him. Even better if he could manage to say something  _to_ .... “What are you doing here?” he says with a crack in his voice.

“You took my ring,” his father growls. “I want it back.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The words burst out of Eliot's chest; he barely feels them travel through his throat. “Are you  _stalking_ us? You don't speak to me for a  _decade_ , and now--”

“I gave that ring to your mother,” Eugene says. He's over-enunciating just a little bit, just sober enough to know he should be trying hard not to slur. “She was the love of my life, and I gave it to her in front of God, you had no right to-- you disrespect your mother, you mock everything that was real – you give it to – as some kind of trick –“ It's almost pathetic, in the classical sense. It's almost full of pathos. His father never really got over his mother's death, Eliot knows that. It would be a love story, if everything surrounding it weren't so irredeemably awful. Then abruptly Eugene's eyes seem to focus, and he doesn't look like a squinty, rambly old man anymore. Even sitting down while Eliot stands, he looks – big. He is big, Eliot knows very well – slightly shorter than Eliot, but wide and hard with a lifetime of work. “You used Shannon's memory,” he says, cold and clear as the fucking Antarctic, “to trick people into trusting a man like you with a little boy--”

“Stop it,” Eliot says – or thinks he says – he's not sure if he thinks it or says it or if it's just coming up from every dumb animal cell of his body. He just knows that he's  _furious_ , that a quarter century of helpless, repressed anger is surging through him all at once, and beyond that he doesn't know a damn thing. He feels himself take one step forward. He doesn't know why.

Nobody put Eugene in handcuffs when they came on the scene. They must have focused on de-escalating the situation and then assumed that a scruffy old man with two armed cops next to him would have the goddamn sense to sit quietly. Eliot could've told them that was a mistake; his father has staggered through life with barely enough goddamn sense to keep from drowning when it rains.

He doesn't get very far, of course; Eliot doesn't even think he's really trying to, but the old man is a scrapper and has been all his life. He's probably reacting on instinct as much as Eliot is when he jumps to his feet and puts out both his hands, connecting with Eliot square in the chest and shoving.

Eliot – sees it coming but doesn't see it coming, can't adjust his balance or prepare himself quickly enough, and he stumbles backwards, unable to find his footing. He reaches out and catches the edge of the receptionist's desk just in time to keep himself from falling.

Distantly, on the other side of the universe, Eliot is aware of movement and raised voices, of people around him reacting, but he's somewhere else and he can't react at all, can't even be sure any of that exists.

He can feel himself falling backwards, and falling, and falling. He's not even frightened at first, just shocked and disoriented, and weirdly exhilirated, like he's suddenly unlocked the secret of flying. But he hasn't. He falls and he falls, and when he lands it forces the air from his body and seals his lungs, and he can't breathe.

He hears the gunshot, and the glass shattering. He hears his heart pounding, but he can't move. Pain explodes through his left arm, and he can't move and it still feels like falling, like he'll never stop falling.

Desperately, he tries to think – where is his phone, where are his keys? –

He's going to die. He's so sure of it. It's so much bigger than every other thought.

He has to get out of this house, but he can't move, everything hurts and he's still falling, he's falling and there's nothing to hold onto, nothing he can do. Margo can – he knows Margo would help him, but he told her to go, he doesn't know where she is now or how to contact her, let alone how to tell her he's sorry before he dies.

And he just keeps falling backwards and he can't breathe and he can't move and he can't stop falling and he knows he has to die here, either his heart will smash apart on the floor or he'll hear the gun go off again, and he's so sorry, Margo was right, she was right all along, but Margo isn't here and he's alone, falling.

“Eliot,” she says, low and urgent. “Eliot. Eliot, honey. Look at me. Can you hear me?”

He can feel Margo's hands on his face. He opens his eyes – if they were closed. He's not sure. But he can see her now. “Bambi,” he says, and she exhales sharply in relief.

Maybe it's an accident, but he's still grateful that she doesn't ask him any questions. She half-turns toward the campus police, who finally seem to have found their fucking handcuffs, and snaps out in the tone of voice that literally no one Eliot knows has ever disobeyed, “I want a goddamn restraining order for my whole family, and I want it tonight.”

They speak to her calmingly. Eliot closes his eyes and tries to gather his thoughts.

Some of her co-workers help Eliot into a chair and put a bottle of water in his hand. He was on his feet the whole time. He never fell at all.

He starts to shake.

Eventually he starts talking, like the adult part of his brain just gets bored of all the drama and decides not to wait for its cue to re-enter the scene. He doesn't know what the fuck he's saying, but it's words and sentences, it's answers to questions. They're taking his statement. He explains about the ring, and that yes, it was in the bank vault, but he didn't rob a bank, his stepmother gave it to him. He feels slightly guilty about dragging Melinda into it, until he realizes that Melinda is the one he let his guard down around, the one he gave Margo's name to. She's the only way his father could have found his way here at all, so fuck her. Fuck her, he doesn't care if she thought she was helping, or purging her conscience, or whatever her motives were, fuck her, Eliot is done forever now, with that whole fucked-up family.

They promise him that a judge will sign the protective order. The tell him what “ex-parte” means, which he vaguely remembers from back when he read a lot of scripts for crime procedurals. They promise him it will absolutely cover Ted, too. He drinks his water and nods and thanks them. He tries not to make eye contact with his father.

He feels the way he knows he looks, through his father's eyes. Weak. Afraid.

Margo holds his hand as they walk down to her parking lot, shooting him anxious glances the whole time. Eliot feels like he's moving slowly, but other than that, he's fairly sure they look normal.

“I'm sorry,” he tells Margo when they're safe inside the car, sealed off from the world.

“Baby,” she says. “What the fuck for?”

He intends to tell her about the ring, about Melinda, about giving away so many personal details about the two of them, enough to track them down. Instead he hears himself say, “I never wanted you to meet him.”

“I know,” she says. “I just. Shit.”

The wobble in her voice is unfamiliar. Eliot turns to look at her, and she's gripping the steering wheel so hard that it must be painful for her left wrist – maybe for both hands. “Be careful,” he says. “We should – do you want to go to Urgent Care and get it looked at?”

“What? No, it's fine. I don't give a shit about any of it, he surprised me, that's it. But I'm  _me_ . And I can't stop thinking – what he must have looked like to. Someone Teddy's size.”

She's crying. Eliot – never wanted that. Never. “I'm sorry,” he says again.

“Don't you dare,” she snaps, and wipes her face off, checking her makeup in the rear-view mirror. “If you apologize for him I'll lose my fucking mind, okay?” Eliot nods.

They're not even late to the restaurant. Quentin and Ted meet them outside, waiting on a bench, and Ted doesn't seem to notice anything wrong, but when Quentin stands up and gives Eliot a quick hug, he murmurs, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Eliot says. “We had a little drama, it's fine now. I'll tell you later.”

The plan was a nice dinner, then let Margo and Ted go do whatever and take Q out for a drink, maybe see if he can coax a dance out of him, but Eliot is extremely over everything tonight, so instead of that Eliot and Quentin take a leisurely evening walk across campus in the fall to get to the visitor lot. It's nice. It feels good to be in the relatively utopian embrace of academia, to raise no more eyebrows by walking with his fingers entwined with Quentin's than he had a couple of hours earlier when it was Margo. It's not the kind of date night that lifelong memories are made of, but after all it's just a normal Friday, and they've been dating for over four months, so this is the new normal that isn't even that new anymore.

He's been dating Q for over four months. It's such a strange thought, but every time he does the math he gets the same answer.

Quentin lets him tell the whole story – well, as much of the whole story as Eliot feels inclined to tell, he's not that interested in reliving the details – without interruption. “I'm so sorry that happened to you,” he says when Eliot's done.

Eliot shrugs. “I'm just really glad he didn't catch up to us somewhere with Ted around.”

“No,” Quentin says. “I mean – yeah, true, and I'm sorry about today, too. But I meant...all of it. You are the most amazing person I know. You deserved so much better.”

It's too stupid a thing for a smart guy like Quentin to say, but Eliot supposes everyone is reduced to platitudes now and then. Obviously Eliot deserved better; the shittiest kid on the planet deserves better than Eugene Waugh, but things don't happen because you deserve them. That's a fairy tale. But Eliot is tired, and Q means well, and all he says is, “Thank you, sweetheart, I appreciate it.”

He does. He appreciates Quentin and his sincerity and his kindness and his ridiculous affection for fairy tales.

Eliot decides to stay in that night, which he hopes Quentin doesn't take personally; he doesn't appear to. They kiss a little bit in the hallway, both of Quentin's hands wrapped up in the ends of Eliot's soft, russet and gold paisley scarf, Eliot trying to communicate with the tips of his fingers stroking over Q's scalp and behind his ears how  _appreciated_ he is. How a man who had a less fraught relationship with words than Eliot might – have better words to give him on a night like tonight. The words that Quentin deserves.

When Eliot gets in bed that night, Margo sits on the edge for a strange amount of time, just holding her hairbrush in her lap, looking at it like it's fascinating to her. “Can I say something?” she finally says, although he doesn't recall Margo ever needing permission to speak her mind before this. She must really think he's on the edge of a nervous breakdown or something.

“Dying to hear it,” he says.

“I try not to tell you how to live your life unless it affects me directly. We all have our own shit, I get it. We all deal in our own ways.”

“But?” Eliot says dryly.

She looks over at him, and she sounds strange and girlish and almost confused when she says, “You had a panic attack today. That's not normal, and I don't think – I don't think it's okay for us to ignore it, even though that's usually how we deal with our shit. I really want you to call that guy – Kady's boyfriend.”

That makes it sound like a social call, but he's pretty sure Margo isn't proposing a dinner party. She means  _I want you to get your ass into therapy_ . Eliot says the only thing he can think of, which is, “I don't know, Bambi.”

Margo waits for more, and then sighs when she realizes more is not forthcoming. She puts the brush aside and turns out the lamp and gets into bed. She has trouble finding the best position, since she usually sleeps with her left hand tucked under her pillow, and she's obviously trying to keep pressure off of it right now. Eliot knows if he mentioned it, she'd say it was nothing.

God, this is why the two of them are stuck together. They're so much alike.

Eliot leans over and kisses her shoulder gently. “I'm – thinking about it, okay?” he says.

She turns her head to look at him, as if she's trying to figure out whether or not he's joking. He must not look like he's joking, because she relaxes into the mattress. “Okay,” she says. “Yeah, that's-- Okay. Think about it.”

He does. Most of the night.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

One knock-on effect of Eliot's radically new suburban mommy-blog lifestyle is that he has a lot of free time during the day, when the kid is at school and the wife is at work and Q is living out the weird combination of those two things that is graduate school. Eliot doesn't mind devoting some of that time to cooking and cleaning – he's actually good at those things, and they hold his interest for short periods, which is long enough to keep his relatively small domain stocked and vacuumed – and he's as interested in the Golden Age of Television as the next person, he supposes, but now that he's not mentally exhausted from pretending to care about his customers five days a week, he finds himself getting restless faster with the passivity.

He catches himself pouring a drink just because he's bored pretty often, and while sometimes that leads to mildly amusing anecdotes like The Time Eliot Discovered Why Drunk Yoga Is Not a Thing, the reality is he doubts his liver can sustain this as a lifestyle. He's rapidly aging out of the window of his life where he can knock back an unlimited number of Singapore slings without damaging his developing brain or, on the other end of the spectrum, spending his life in a permanent mild hangover, and even though Eliot is the quintessential jolly drunk and is markedly _less_ likely to make another human being cry when he's intoxicated than when he's sober, he still – probably shouldn't –

It's just generally not a hobby that's compatible with parenthood, he feels. He feels semi-seriously about that, in fact.

When he fills out the online form that Adiyodi's office sends him about his mental health history and therapeutic goals, he marks that he has 7-10 drinks per week, which he thinks sounds high, but 4-6 sounded low. He's not sure; he's never kept close track. He marks _Somewhat_ in answer to the question about how comfortable he feels with that number.

He already quit smoking and he is _for damn sure_ not going to stop drinking, but. He's trying to be honest – or not dishonest, anyway. It feels too early in the process to start paying a therapist to listen to him lie.

 

In the back half of October it's been easier than usual to fill his time, because Halloween is coming up, and Eliot is determined to get every last one of them in costume.

He does not get immediate buy-in on this plan. Quentin, predictably, is concerned about making a fool of himself, even after Eliot shows him the whole scope of the brilliant project, talks himself hoarse about how classy and handsome and not even a tiny bit foolish Quentin is going to look, and basically prostitutes himself in exchange for this _one, small_ favor, but eventually under the weight of all of that, Q comes around.

Ted wants to be a goddamn Transformer, and Eliot can't deal with that, he really cannot. They argue about it for a week, during which time Margo conspicuously does _not_ back Eliot up, but says annoyingly mature things like _he's a child_ , _Eliot_ and _would you just let him have fun?_

And of course normally Eliot would – normally he does – but, look, Eliot  _wants_ this, okay? He's thrifted half the components of this family design scheme already, and special-ordered his tights, and this might be the one chance he has in his entire life to attend a Halloween carnival at a Catholic grade school in drag, and he honestly thinks it'll haunt him on his deathbed at this point if he doesn't go through with it.

Eliot does so goddamn much for these people.  _He deserves this._

Finally he cuts a deal: as long as Ted will put on the costume Eliot picks for him long enough to take ten or twelve charming photographs that will preserve the memories of their first family Halloween for eternity, then he can change into the cheap-ass Transformers costume from Target to wear around his friends at school. Ted seems content with this plan; Eliot is still wildly resentful, but, well, Margo does have a point – one of them has to be an adult about this, and Eliot supposes it should probably be him.

Eliot mellows out by Halloween, of course, and only partially because his close encounter with his father a few days beforehand have softened him up to the value of love and family and cherishing the people who deserve it most and all that. Sure, that's a factor, but also he's just really proud of his work.

Superficially, Margo's costume is the flashiest, although it was deceptively easy to make – it's just a secondhand black sheath dress, but he's attached multiple spiraled layers of cheap black tulle to the hem and the sleeves and the neckline to goth it up; it's by no means a faithful reproduction of the movie design, but Morticia is entirely about hair and makeup and attitude, so Margo's fine, he always knew she would be. 

Quentin obviously struggles a bit in the attitude department, but once Eliot gets him convinced that, honestly, all he has to do is put on the damn suit, he finally quits resisting. It's been difficult for Eliot to refrain from over-tailoring, just because in his heart of hearts he does yearn to see Quentin in a suit – or practically any article of clothing, truthfully – that really _fits_ him, but the slight bagginess just reads more Gomez-y, and Eliot's artistic integrity wins out over his thirst. He's painstakingly hand-painted the white stripes onto the gray suit, and he doesn't really expect anyone to notice or appreciate his commitment to the bit, but – Quentin does notice, and comments on it, and seems impressed.

God, he's such boyfriend material.

All Ted has to do is wear the damn striped shirt, which...once Eliot's had time to give it some thought, he can see how that doesn't feel particularly thrilling to a six-year-old. Whatever, he gets free candy.

Eliot has sweat _blood_ over his dress. It's not a particuarly difficult design, and there are several patterns online, but obviously it has to be sized up considerably and then fitted by trial and error. Eliot has the knack for hemming and letting out and taking in his own vests and jackets and pants by now, but skirts turn out to require slightly different skills in order to guarantee evenness, and he has to redo the sleeves twice to get them to fit as sleekly as he would like. He goes right down to the wire with it, sewing on the Peter Pan collar on the morning of Halloween itself, then briefly panicking because he's completely spaced on what kind of shoes he's going to need for this. Luckily a plain pair of black Oxfords turns out to suit the Wednesday aesthetic, even if they aren't a perfect match for the movie.

They all look so damn good, and Eliot is so proud of his family full of fierce and beautiful monsters.

Eliot looks best, though, and that's perfectly fine with him. _He deserves this._ It's been a weird couple of weeks full of emotional highs and lows, and if it soothes Eliot's soul to have Quentin stare at Eliot's legs in their demure opaque tights and automatically usher Eliot through doors with a hand on his lower back, well, fuck, Eliot deserves that, too. Eliot is unfailingly gallant when he's called upon to be gallant; it's someone else's turn.

Even though their Pugsley is now a killer robot from outer space, the basic costume concept remains intact, and fellow adults at the event react positively overall, while of course the other kids could give a damn what any of the adults are doing, if it's not handing out snacks. Eliot resists the urge to over-explain – everything about their situation, or to apologize when he calls himself and Margo _Ted's parents_ instead of _Ted's foster parents_ , even though he feels like he's misleading people. It's none of their damn business, he reminds himself. When he has to introduce Quentin, he sticks with _Ted's father_ and lets people just – work that shit out amongst themselves. Eliot's never minded being gossiped about, and he doesn't intend to start now.

Each of the classrooms has a different Halloween decorating theme, and Ted's class is Ghosts, so they have to go look at the ghost art projects, which mostly involve white tissue paper in nooses, and the cafeteria has become a pumpkin-carving enterprise. That gives Quentin a thing to do that settles his social anxiety by giving him something else to focus on, and Eliot and Margo trade off helping Ted play beanbag-toss games in exchange for candy with socializing with their peers, in search of that elusive school-event unicorn: people who aren't awful and also have a child that Ted might reasonably want to hang out with.

Eliot does his duty right up until he runs into Reese, who's one of his coven of Swim Moms of Dubious Virtue; she's dressed as Scarlet Witch and she has a flask and a pack of cigarettes and...Halloween comes but once a year.

They duck out the back door and smoke behind the cafeteria, and yes he does feel guilty, but he's also starting fucking therapy in two weeks, okay? Eliot is trying hard to be good, and responsible, and – and he's just trying _hard_ lately, at everything, sometimes everything feels like it's such immense effort, and so many people depend on him doing everything right all the time and what actually are the chances of that? He's going to fuck something up sooner or later, so – if it's just the school Halloween carnival, it could be a lot worse, right?

That's Eliot's story, at any rate.

He declines Reese's offer to share the flask. It's kind of a low bar to clear, but at least he can say he cleared it.

She doesn't stay out there very long; her ex-husband is inside with their son, and Reese doesn't entirely trust the two of them not to talk shit about her, so she pecks Eliot's cheek and throws out half her cigarette unused before going back inside. Eliot only smokes once a century now, so he has no goddamn intention of being so wasteful. He gets as comfortable as he can, reclined against the concrete steps from the cafeteria down to the recycling bins, and closes his eyes to savor the bitter, blessed taste of his inevitable untimely death.

When he opens his eyes again, he's been joined by another man, a black guy who must be at least forty, wearing a smart pale gray suit and, in an extremely token attempt at a costume, a gold plastic crown. It works for him, though; he has that air about him, straight-backed and solidly planted, not as tall as he comes off, but eminently...well, Quentin would say _regal_ , wouldn't he? He smiles slightly at Eliot and drops his eyes pointedly to the lit cigarette between Eliot's fingers. “It's a non-smoking campus,” he says.

“Gosh,” Eliot says. “This is my first time doing anything I'm not supposed to, so – how do we proceed, here?”

“Well, my first suggestion,” he says, slow and rich and amused, “would be, don't let the vice principal catch you. But we're a little late for that.” Eliot blinks, and this handsome bastard grins at him and holds out his hand. “Dr. Loria.”

“Uh,” Eliot says like an asshole, awkwardly passing the cigarette off to his left hand so he can shake hands. “Eliot. Does my kid need a lawyer or something, before I give you more identifying details?”

“Oh, I wouldn't think so,” he says reassuringly, before dipping into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulling out his own pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Anyway, I think I know who you are,” he says around the cigarette as he lights it. “In this job, it's difficult not to stay abreast of the comings and goings of Clan Pickwick, whether you want to or not. You're adopting Ted Coldwater, right?”

Not technically, but Eliot doesn't want to be pedantic about it. “Right, Ted is – a Pickwick alum, I guess. He lives with us now. With, ah. Me and my – platonic co-parenting life partner.”

“Hm,” Dr. Loria says, his eyes tracking unhurriedly all the way down Eliot, lingering just briefly where his crossed legs have caused the hem of his perfectly even knee-length skirt to ride up his thigh. “That sounds like a very – free-spirited arrangement.”

“Free as birds,” Eliot barely manages to say. “That's us.”

_Holy shit_ , this is. Unexpected. Eliot can hear his heart pounding as adrenaline floods his system, everything sharpening and brightening around him. Too many possibilities spin out in his brain all at once, leaving him disoriented, but – pleasantly so.

“That's a beautiful costume,” Dr. Loria says. “I imagine it was difficult to find, in your size.”

“I imagine it would've been,” Eliot says. “But I made it, so.”

His eyebrows go up, and he appears genuinely interested when he says, “Did you really? It looks incredibly professional. Are you in fashion?”

“Unfailingly,” Eliot says, and Dr. Loria flashes an even wider smile than before. Either he thinks Eliot is funny, or he thinks Eliot is cute enough to pretend he's funny, and Eliot is frankly fine with it either way. “Not professionally, however. But thank you.”

“I have a proposition for you,” Dr. Loria says, and Eliot can't entirely hide – whatever is on his face. Surprise, probably. Eliot chooses to believe it's surprise. Dr. Loria smiles and says, “Well, now I feel like it's going to be a let-down when I tell you what it is. I'm on the board of directors at the Wellspring, do you know it?”

Eliot does, actually. “The theater?”

“The theater. We've added extra projects to our season this year, and we're finding ourselves a little strapped for time and manpower. Our costume department, particularly, could desperately use an extra pair of hands. It wouldn't be a regular job, just a few hours every so often to help with fittings and alterations, but it's a bit of money in your pocket, and it's quite a bit of fun, actually.”

This is – unexpected, too. Eliot feels himself pulling back from the idea, even as something – magnetic in his stomach drags him toward it. It's been... god. It's been ages since he's even set foot in a theater, let alone.... “It's probably-- I don't know, it would be – hard to schedule? With Ted....”

“Bring him,” Dr. Loria says easily. “Lots of people bring their kids during rehearsals, they run around and amuse each other. It's a very safe environment, I assure you.”

“I'm sure it is.” That'll go over well with Margo; she's been saying she thinks Ted should be playing with other kids more, starting to make friends on his own.

“Well, give it some thought, of course. Discuss it with your – partner.” He produces a business card from his wallet and passes it to Eliot. Idri Loria, it says. Wellspring Repertory Company. “Now, there are two numbers on that card,” Idri Loria says in the deep, soothing voice that he no doubt practices daily on overwrought children. “The first is the theater's executive office; call that one if you decide you're interested. The second is my personal number, and unfortunately I have to ask you not to contact me there. You understand, of course, that it would be wildly inappropriate for me to receive personal calls from devastatingly attractive parents.”

“Wildly,” Eliot agrees. “Of course. I would – hate to put you in that position.” God, _are_ there words anymore that don't come out sounding vaguely filthy? Eliot can't think of any.

Dr. Loria – Idri – finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the concrete before flicking it off into the bushes. “I hope you really do consider it, Eliot,” he says as he stands. “I'd hate to let a man so talented and charming vanish on me when the clock strikes midnight.”

The concrete steps are in no way comfortable, but Eliot does his best to flop dramatically back on them anyway once he's alone. _What the fuck._ Eliot's had a lot of experiences, but he's never been cruised, rejected, and headhunted in the same five-minute conversation, and he feels – spun and giddy and turned on, even though....

Even though obviously it's not – anything. Idri seems like a smart, together guy; he's sure as hell not going to put his career in jeopardy just for a piece of ass. The guy likes to flirt a little, that's all, and it's Halloween, what better time to indulge in a harmless flirtation.

And Eliot's obviously not – serious, either. Of course he's not. He's...free to do what he likes, he's pretty sure, but just because something is technically allowable doesn't make it a good idea.

Flirting is one thing. It's fun, and – god, it's _flattering_ , how did Eliot manage to forget what a fucking rush it is to have someone's eyes on him that way, to feel their focus narrowing right down to the borders of Eliot's skin?

Obviously anything more than flirting is not an option. It would be – messy, at best, and while fuck knows Eliot's had his share of messy in the past, that was. That was the past. He doesn't break hearts for sport anymore; he's learned and grown as a person, or – even if he hasn't –

Eliot's too selfish to put any of the things he has right now at risk. That's really what it comes down to. He's fucking _happy_ for once, and he's not looking to shake that up.

Although Margo's probably going to kill him if he doesn't show the hell back up and participate in family holiday fun, so Eliot gets to his feet, makes sure his pigtail wig is on straight, and tries to sidle back into the carnival like he was never really gone. Margo glares at him like she's definitely not fooled, but he mouths _sorry_ at her with a helpless gesture, and she seems to let it go.

It's kind of late when they leave the school, but Ted is convinced it's early and has just now realized that a carnival isn't an entirely acceptable substitute for trick-or-treating. The problem is that you have to go out to the suburbs for the real hauls, and that starts to turn this into a late-night adventure – all well and good in theory, beautiful lifetime memories and all that, but Eliot's the one who has to wake Ted up for school tomorrow. Margo tries to talk him into just knocking on the doors in their block of condos, which, when you subtract the two condos that belong to Ted's family, doesn't leave a lot of chances, and even though Ted usually trusts Margo completely, he seems to sense that he's being hustled this time.

“Whichever Greek houses aren't hosting the parties will probably have people with candy,” Quentin points out. “At least, they always did at Columbia.”

Fraternity row seems like a strong combo of short distances with high candy concentration, and if Eliot knows his kid, he'll probably walk out of any given sorority house with the fucking silverware, that's how much girls love him, so that's the strategy they go with.

It pays out pretty well. The parties haven't really geared up yet, so people are mostly carbing up and fixing their animal facepaint and watching slasher movies, and they're the kind of bored and keyed up that's ripe for distraction. Ted is indeed a huge fucking hit, as always, and apparently the _soi-disant_ adults in the family are still young enough not to read as creepy to the undergrads, because they get invited into a couple of the houses to drink punch and show off their costumes while Ted offers to tell ghost stories that lack a lot of narrative heft, since they mostly end up being _one time there was a ghost_. Still, he's cute, so who cares.

“He has your curls!” one girl tells Eliot, who started getting a little sweaty two glasses of punch into this operation and took off his wig.

“Yup,” Eliot says flatly.

When Ted crashes, it happens all at once, and they're stranded on a pedestrian walkway in the middle of campus with a small child who's leaking tears and insisting that walking five minutes back to the car is an impossible task. “You're killing me, kid,” Eliot says, hoisting Ted up into his arms while handing the pumpkin full of candy off to Quentin. “Look, what's your problem? Are you tired?”

“No,” Ted lies. “My feet hurt.”

So Eliot carries him all the way back to the car, because what are you gonna do. Fortunately, he's wearing the most comfortable shoes that anyone in drag has ever worn in the history of time; that helps. Brava to Miss Wednesday for having her footwear priorities in order.

They get home around ten, and Ted is dead asleep, so Eliot has to carry him upstairs, too. He hands Ted off to Margo, who gets him sorta-kinda awake, at least enough to get him out of his costume before bed. He is quite literally asleep again before his little head hits the pillow.

“Where the hell did you disappear to?” Margo asks once they've shut Ted up in his room. She collapses onto the couch, unbuckling the straps of her not-comfortable-at-all heels with a little breath of relief. “At the school, I mean.”

“You're going to feel very guilty when I tell you,” Eliot says loftily. “I had a job interview.”

“You what?” Quentin says over the sound of the faucet where he's filling up Eliot's tea kettle. “At the-- what are you talking about?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says as casually as possible, “I was talking to this guy about costumes, and he was impressed with my outfit. Anyway, he turns out to pretty much run the Wellspring, and he wants me to – like a temp gig, basically, but I'd be assisting in the costume department.”

“Eliot, that's amazing!” Quentin says, so goddamn earnestly. “I think you'll be really good at that.”

“Yeah, congratulations,” Margo says, markedly less earnestly. “Now, would you please get out of here? Your boy has been staring at your ass all night, and I need you to let him up under your skirt, because you know unresolved sexual tension always gives me a migraine.”

“Jesus, Margo,” Quentin huffs, because for some reason he can still get embarrassed by things that one or both of them say, Eliot loves that about him.

Just to be obnoxious, though, Eliot chooses to agree with him this time. “Yeah, Bambi,” he says, “please calm yourself. Can't you see that we're going to have a very civilized, adult cup of tea first, or maybe two cups, and a learned discussion on the AIDS crisis and the homoeroticism of vampire novels, and then  _perhaps_ , depending upon the lateness of the hour--”

“You know, I used to wonder why you two didn't have more friends,” Quentin says, very calm and civilized as he empties the kettle back out and sets it in the drying rack.

“Oh, have we changed our mind about the tea?” Eliot says innocently.

“I'm gonna change my mind about  _you_ in a minute,” Quentin threatens.

Eliot blows Margo a few kisses with both hands as he follows Quentin to the door. “Goodnight, happy Halloween, you're a beautiful flower, I love you.” She flips him off, but like, lovingly.

“You really are just fundamentally unfair,” Quentin informs him while fumbling through his keyring for his apartment key. “Eight hundred miles of leg  _and_ you tease me with vampire literary analysis?”

“I heard a really good podcast on the subject,” Eliot says, and then chooses to make unlocking the door even more difficult by fitting himself up against Quentin's back. Quentin folds instantaneously, chest and cheek and one palm pressing against the door as a shiver tracks down his body and he clutches the keys helplessly in his other hand. “You want me to leave the dress on?” Eliot murmurs into his ear.

“ _Fuck, yes_ ,” Quentin gasps. “All of it, leave it all on.”

So Eliot does exactly that, perching on the foot of Quentin's bed without removing so much as his Oxfords, feet splayed outward and knees just slightly apart, leaning back on his hands and watching as Quentin yanks off his suit and tie. His slicked-back hair and the mustache painted on with eyeliner should look absurd once Quentin is only in a dress shirt and his boxers instead of in a full ensemble, but Eliot can't think of it that way, can only see the heat and the happiness in Quentin's eyes as he sinks to his knees and places his hands so – so carefully,  _reverently_ , over Eliot's kneecaps – a part of Eliot's body that has never before been, he's fairly sure, an erogenous zone.

But it feels so fucking good right now, the way Quentin's hands grip lightly and rub soft circles, the way his thumbs rub the lycra of the tights against Eliot's skin, and as Quentin eases Eliot's thighs further apart, Eliot has to press a hand where the bulge inside his briefs is definitely starting to spoil the lines of his skirt. Eliot's cock twitches impatiently against the pressure, and he can't stop a desperate whine from escaping, even though – or maybe because – Quentin still isn't doing a damn thing but kneeling there and  _looking_ up at Eliot.

Okay, but Eliot has to  _do_ something, though, so he lets go of his dick and hooks his fingertips in his skirt so he can start hiking it upward, a quarter inch at a time. He's dizzy and his heart pounds and his mouth is dry and Q is watching him, watching every twitch, every whisper of cloth against cloth and what it reveals, and Eliot feels – wanted, and powerful, and starving, and – beautiful. Like he deserves this, just like this.

Even when Quentin turns his head enough to kiss the inside of Eliot's knee, Eliot can feel – not his eyes, but his vision, his attention – can feel that Eliot is the only thing in Quentin's head right now, in Quentin's whole world. His cock throbs, and Eliot just wants more and more, so he gasps out, “Do you want to be on top? You want to – fuck me?”

Quentin's eyes come back to him, his cheek rubbing the damp spot where his mouth just was as he turns his head. “I didn't know if you liked that,” he says quietly. His other hand is still kneading softly over the bone of Eliot's knee, an idle, affectionate touch.

Eliot does, sometimes. As sex acts go, he finds it – unreliable; he's been fucked however many times, a hundred or more, and it's run the whole gamut from mind-blowing to awkward to how-much-tequila-will-it-take-to-black-this-memory-out. He's not worried about it with Quentin, though. Probably he knows what he's doing, and if he doesn't, worst-case scenario, Eliot will just have to talk him through it. God knows the boy can take direction. “In the right mood I do,” Eliot says. “Keep – keep doing what you were doing, that was definitely getting me there.”

And Jesus, Quentin takes that so unbearably literally, he just keeps going and going, his mouth on the inside of Eliot's thighs, his hands pressed up under Eliot's skirt and moving in those same warm, affectionate circles over Eliot's hips. Eliot's shaking so hard he's worried about his ability to support himself on only one arm, but he has no choice because he needs his other hand to rub his cock through his tights and underwear, and he can't lie back because then he won't be able to see Quentin.

Eventually he runs out of options, though; when Quentin's fingers tug on his waistband, Eliot finds that he doesn't have the ability to push his hips up off the bed until he gives up and flops backwards. “Oh, fuck,” Quentin whispers as he pulls everything down to the tops of Eliot's thighs, as far as they'll go when Eliot is splayed open like this. Eliot can't do anything but groan in agreement and gather up as much skirt as he can in one hand, pulling it up out of the way of his cock. Quentin's hand feels cool and steady as it presses against the hot skin of Eliot's groin, pressing his hip down into the mattress. “Can I...?”

“Yes,” Eliot gasps. “Yes, you can – whatever you want.”

“Can I take a picture?” Quentin says, and it goes through Eliot so hard it literally  _bends his spine_ , it makes him arch and squirm as his brain is flooded with images of Q when he's alone, taking out his phone, looking at Eliot like this, wanting and admiring and remembering.

“Do you want it to – are you going to jack off to it?” Eliot asks, because he  _knows_ Quentin is, but he wants to hear him say it so badly.

Quentin groans and turns his head, his forehead pressing into Eliot's thigh, and he says, “Yes, fuck, yes, you're so – oh, god, you're gorgeous, Eliot,  _fuck_ . Please.”

And Eliot has always been extremely careful about nudes, because you never know where that shit is going to turn up after you become famous, but none of that matters now, and maybe it wouldn't have back then either, if he'd known anyone like Quentin at the time. Eliot entertains himself while he's being arranged for the camera, wondering what it would've been like if he'd picked the life of a sophisticated New York artist over the fantasy of easy LA fame and money – if he'd fallen in with film-school nerds and Broadway queens, fucked his way through gallery openings and classically trained musicians and the fashion scene – if he'd ducked into some coffeeshop in the West Village to escape the winter chill and seen Quentin there. Would Eliot still have seen the potential in him, or would he have looked right past an awkward college kid with a stack of books on his table, just seen a Manhattan two like everyone else apparently did?

Of course, Eliot's grateful that none of that actually happened. LA is a wasteland, but life with no Bambi in it just doesn't bear contemplating.

The pictures come out on the artsy side – Eliot doesn't know what else he expected. His face isn't visible, most of the frame dominated by his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, one knee slightly bent, the black briefs and tights caught halfway down his thighs. Eliot's hand, pulling the skirt up. Eliot's cock displayed against the background of the black dress, his other hand encircling it lightly, almost casually. Put a black and white filter on it, and Eliot could be starring in French cinema as easily as porn, but then, that really does seem like the kind of thing Quentin would prefer to masturbate to. Quentin lies alongside Eliot on the bed to scroll through them, his foot hooked unconsciously around Eliot's calf. Eliot keeps stroking his cock absently as he murmurs praise for Quentin's cinematography. “It's the subject,” Quentin says, and nuzzles the side of Eliot's face.

Eliot turns his head to catch an off-center kiss, and he loves the way even for the briefest moment, Quentin's eyes always flutter shut when they kiss. “Still wanna fuck me?” Eliot asks.

“I....” Quentin blinks and frowns slightly, like he's checking his own math and not confident in the results. “Can we – a different time? I  _want_ to, I really – but there's just – I don't know, there's something about the tights and the skirt and your beautiful cock. It's just a, it's, it's some kind of genderfuckery thing, I guess? I don't know, it's just turning me on  _so_ much.”

Eliot smiles at him, this sweet boy who can't stop overthinking what he wants and why he wants it – who thinks and thinks and thinks about it, and comes back to Eliot every time. “Well, then you should get back on the floor and show me  _how_ much, shouldn't you?” he says.

And oh, god, he does, of course he does; Eliot is a bitter, cynical bitch, but he has to believe – you can't not believe in Quentin, you have to at least believe that he loves doing this – his hand and his mouth and his little whimpery noises and the way he shuffles his knees restlessly on the carpet as impatient desire ricochets through his body. It feels weird not to put his fingers into Quentin's hair, but that's still pasted down with pomade and temporary dye, tied off ruthlessly so it doesn't interfere with his discarded costume, so instead Eliot just makes himself relax, one hand thrown up over his head and the other resting lightly over his diaphragm.

He wishes he could feel a touch, even his own touch, on bare skin, but it's too much trouble at this point to wrestle out of the dress while lying on his back. If someone were here to do it for him-- Eliot's breath catches and his head tilts back a little, imagining another hand – Idri's big, heavy hand pushing the fabric up Eliot's body, stroking firmly from Eliot's stomach up to his sternum. Maybe with his other hand Idri would stroke the back of Quentin's neck, rumbling encouragement in that sexy voice –  _see what you do to him, baby? How bad he needs you, how much he--_

Eliot laughs raggedly at the ceiling. That's his plan, he's really gonna bring in a ringer because he can't just  _tell_ Q himself that he – what he wants – how he feels? That's a bad plan.

Quentin pulls off of his dick, and Eliot thinks he's going to ask a question, what Eliot is laughing about, and Eliot tries to speak but can only mumble  _no, no_ – barely more than noises, when really he could and should say  _please don't stop, I never want us to stop._ But Quentin strokes his thigh, his other hand still working Eliot's cock, and says, warm and hoarse and indulgent, “Come on, you can come, it's okay. It's okay.” And it sounds true when Quentin says it, and Eliot lets himself come, the angle of his cock fully controlled by Quentin's firm grip.

When Quentin puts his hands on Eliot's knees and kneels up, Eliot makes his eyes focus, and he sees his come on Quentin's jaw and neck. “You're too fucking good to be true,” Eliot manages to say.

Quentin gives him an angled little smile and wipes the bolt of his jaw with the back of his wrist. “I just know what I like,” he says. He extends his hand, and Eliot locks both of his hands around it, taking advantage of the leverage to help himself to a sitting position. “And now what I want is a shower,” Quentin continues. “I want to come while you're washing my hair.”

“Seriously?” Eliot says.

“Yes,” Quentin says, one million percent seriously. “It feels so good, and I'm pretty damn close already, so come on, hurry up.” Eliot groans as he lets himself be pulled to his feet.

He gets out of the tights as gracefully as possible, which isn't especially gracefully, at least not on his shocky, sex-quivery legs, but he thinks he makes up for it with the dress, which just comes open with a couple of buttons behind his neck, and then Eliot can pull it off and inside-out with one arm, a long, fluid movement that Quentin watches very carefully as he's getting naked too. Eliot feels a brief whisper of that phantom extra hand down his back, and he feels – should he feel guilty about that? He shouldn't, right? People fantasize sometimes, and Eliot is a fan of threesomes, he's never tried to hide that. It's harmless.

Still, he does feel a tiny bit guilty when Quentin's extremely real hand takes him by the wrist and tugs him toward the bathroom, like he's somehow robbing Quentin of the valuable currency of Eliot's attention. Pretty vain, when he thinks about it. He should probably stop thinking about it.

He makes it up to Quentin in the shower, all of his attention on the way Quentin's face looks, with his hand flying over his cock and both of Eliot's hands buried in his hair, working the shampoo right down to his scalp. When Quentin is trembling on the edge, Eliot even presses Quentin's head forward, chin down, and drags the bridge of his own nose up the back of Quentin's neck, right along his spine, squeezing down on Quentin's hips and hanging on tight while Quentin cries out under the force of his orgasm. “There we go,” Eliot says soothingly, kissing the back of Quentin's neck. “Better, yeah? You feel good?”

“Oh, god,” Quentin sighs out, letting his head loll back against Eliot. “God. Eliot.” Eliot hums his approval of the whole situation and gets back to rinsing the foam out of Quentin's hair.

They can't stop gazing at each other, for some reason, and even though Quentin's usually happy being the little spoon, tonight they lie facing each other, noses almost touching, knees pulled up and bumping into each other as they nest down under the comforter. _See what you do to me, baby?_ Eliot wants to say. Quentin smiles at him like he does see. _How bad I need you? How much I...._

Quentin touches Eliot's hair, fingers skating along the tighter shape of the damp curls. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

“That it's going to be hard to top this with next year's Halloween costume,” Eliot lies with a smile.

Quentin laughs softly, his breath warming Eliot's lips. “You'll think of something.”

“That I like your smile,” Eliot says, which is – closer to the truth.

Quentin leans in a bit and kisses Eliot's chin. “I like your everything,” Quentin says.

 

The weird thing is, it's the last time they have sex for quite a while.

That's not planned or anything – at least, it's not Eliot's plan, and as far as he knows it's not Quentin's, either. It's just the rhythm of things; November is when Q's students start to panic, and when he starts to realize he has his own papers to finish for his seminars, so instead of turning up almost every night for dinner, he spends a lot of evenings at the library.

The light's changed completely now from early in the summer when Eliot first met Quentin. Eliot doesn't know why he notices that so much, but he does. They haven't had their first snowfall of the year yet, but the sky feels leaden, and it won't be long now.

It's hardest on Ted, honestly, who's used to seeing Quentin practically every day, and who doesn't have much of a frame of reference for things like finals. Eliot does his best to explain, but over the course of the next couple of weeks, he can clearly see Ted getting fretful and frustrated and difficult, repeating the same questions Eliot can't satisfactorily answer about  _when_ and  _why_ .

Eliot still sees Quentin; he goes over there almost every day to play the piano, and often Q is there, nested into a little fortress of books and notebooks and coffee on the couch. He swears it's no bother if Eliot plays while he works; in order to meet him halfway, Eliot tries to choose quieter music when Q is home, gentle Liszt and Chopin pieces that blend into the background. Eliot's a little rickety at first, but it comes back to him pretty quickly. He always had good hands for the piano, and music just – comes easily to him, painlessly; it always did. It's really the only thing that ever has.

They don't talk much, and when they do it's routine and unobjectionable –  _good morning_ and  _you want more coffee?_ and  _it's absolutely fine, I like it._ Eliot puts a hand on Quentin's chest as he passes by, or kisses the top of his head, and Quentin smiles faintly, still jotting notes in the margins.

Maybe Eliot could get him to talk more if he put in the effort, but he doesn't. The truth is, he's afraid Quentin will ask about the upcoming block of time on Monday that's bolded out in Google calendar and labeled “Eliot – appointment.” Eliot would rather not be asked. He hasn't told Quentin about therapy yet, and – of course he will, but. Not yet.

Quentin skips a Family Bonding Friday at the skating rink.

Margo and Ted finish  _The World in the Walls_ without him.

He smiles at Eliot when Eliot touches him, but he doesn't invite Eliot into his bedroom. As far as Eliot can tell, Quentin's barely even sleeping in his bedroom anymore. The light is better for reading in the living room, Quentin says, and he never seems to stop reading now, so he's migrated to his winter home on the couch. More than one morning, Eliot comes over to find Quentin asleep right where Eliot left him, curled up awkwardly on the couch, bogged down in books. It can't be good for his spine.

It's not the new normal, Eliot tells himself. It's only been a few days. It's only been a week. It hasn't even been two weeks yet. It's school. It's the weather. It's normal.

He's not worried. Not really.

Margo's free Friday comes and goes. Eliot takes Ted to the movies; there's a new Addams Family out, and Eliot is prepared to disapprove of it, but Ted laughs all the way through, and ultimately Eliot decides he doesn't hate it. Change can be good, right?

Margo comes home after two in the morning, cigarette smoke in her hair even after she showers, and Eliot pretends to be asleep so he's not obligated to ask her if she had fun. He feels.... He doesn't know. Tight and cold and bitter, jealous in a way he hasn't felt in many years, and guilty for how fucking petty he knows he's being. Margo doesn't owe him shit.

He wonders if she takes off her wedding ring when she goes out.

If Eliot ever just – made a break for it – just took one night for himself and pretended not to have any responsibilities or any obligations or anyone waiting for him at home, he wouldn't even have a ring to take off.

Not that he would do that. Not really.

Eliot honestly doesn't know what's wrong with him. A few weeks ago, everything seemed so.... He was happy, he knows he was. He's really too old for all this moody shit.

Two Sundays after Halloween, Eliot gets up early and makes French toast for Margo and Ted, and when the two of them have built their own couch blanket fortress for watching cartoons on Netflix, Eliot gets dressed and takes a plate over to Quentin. Tomorrow is “Eliot – appointment” day and Eliot is aggressively not thinking about it, because how will that help? Whatever happens tomorrow happens.

He's surprised to find Quentin not on the couch at all. He's started a puzzle on his dining table, a dauntingly convoluted MC Escher design in sepia monochrome that looks goddamn impossible to Eliot. Most of the pieces are still in the box, only a smattering of pieces surrounding each corner beginning to form the shape of the puzzle's frame. “When did you get this?” Eliot asks him.

“Had it for a while,” Quentin says. “I just – needed a break, so I thought I'd finally start it.”

Something squirms behind the wall of Eliot's chest, some snappish, ugly thing that wants to say  _if you needed a break so damn badly, what was wrong with us?_

But it goes dormant almost immediately. Quentin looks – exhausted. He looks small and tense and hunched over, and Eliot can't stand the idea of being one more burden when Quentin is obviously already overwhelmed. “Need any help?” he asks.

Quentin shakes his head. “I'm just, um, it helps to, to have something really concrete to focus on sometimes. I used to do a lot of puzzles. In the, in the hospital. I'm not great at them, but they help with the – noise.”

Eliot puts the French toast down on the breakfast bar and stands behind Quentin's chair. Tentatively, he slides his fingers behind Quentin's hair, against the back of Quentin's neck. Quentin doesn't particularly react, so Eliot takes that as permission, but not encouragement to continue. “Are you, uh, one of those people who – gets a little down when there's less light? Like a seasonal-affective thing?”

Quentin huffs a little, like he recognizes the words as amusing even though he can't rally himself to be amused. “Sometimes,” he says. “I mean. I guess so, yeah.”

“What about those special lights they make that are more like sunlight?” Eliot suggests. “Have you ever had one of those? Or vitamin D supplements--”

“Eliot,” he says sharply. “I don't. Come on, I-- You're not my doctor, remember?”

Right. True. “Okay, I'm sorry,” Eliot says. “I just.... You don't seem like yourself lately.”

“Don't I?” Quentin says. “I guess that's a matter of opinion.”

It's obvious he doesn't especially want Eliot here, even though he's too polite, or else still too generically fond of Eliot, to say that outright. Eliot knows he should go, because it's never elegant to wear out your welcome, but he just... he worries. And maybe that's stupid, maybe Eliot is crossing a line here; Quentin knows himself better than anyone, and if he thinks what he needs is...time, then maybe Eliot just needs to shut up and trust him.

For the first time in his life, Eliot wishes he had Julia Wicker's number in his phone. Or – even Alice's. He just feels like it would be helpful if he could confer with someone a little more experienced than himself in the delicate art of being in Quentin's life.

But what good does wishing ever do anyone? The reality is, there's no one here but Eliot, so he's just going to have to – figure things out. Trial and error, if that's what it takes.

“Hey,” Eliot says quietly, and although Quentin looks a little reluctant, he does pull his eyes away from the puzzle and up toward Eliot. “Would you do something for me?”

“Depends on what,” Quentin says.

“It won't take long,” Eliot promises. “Five minutes.” Quentin does something odd with his eyebrows, and for the first time in a while, Eliot is tempted to laugh. “As seductive as I'm sure that line is, no, not that.”

Quentin shrugs slightly, and he's – smiling? Not exactly, but there's some little bit of warmth in his eyes that Eliot hasn't seen in a while, and Eliot drinks it in like drops of ambrosia on the tip of his tongue, like it restores a hundred years to his lifespan. “Well, now I'm curious.”

Eliot knows this apartment pretty well by now. He knows there's a drawer in Quentin's coffee table that's full of pens and highlighters and free bookmarks from the used book store he keeps in business and tea bags and – for reasons Eliot prefers not to know – a bag of dice. And also several decks of plain Bicycle playing cards. That's the one Eliot cares about, and he brings one deck back to the table and sits down across from Quentin, placing the box in the empty center of the puzzle between them. “Show me some magic.”

Quentin picks up the box and looks at it curiously. He looks up at Eliot, more curiously. “Why?” he says. “You've never been all that interested....”

“Well, I am today,” Eliot says. “Impress me.”

Quentin lets the deck slide out of the box into his palm. Eliot can already see the ease that begins in Quentin's fingers and loosens his wrist and arm as he rifles through the cards with his thumb, face up. “By royal command?” he says, and flicks the King of Clubs onto the table between them.

“If necessary,” Eliot says.

“Well, then,” Quentin says, sending the King of Diamonds down to join his friend. “How can I refuse?”

He sorts eight cards out that way, all the Kings and all the Queens. He lines them up and fans them out, showing them to Eliot. “Pick one,” he says. “Don't tell me which. I'm going to tell you.”

“All right,” Eliot says.

“Are you thinking of it?”

“Aren't you supposed to tell me?”

“We're getting there. Patience.” Eliot settles on the Queen of Diamonds. He likes a fancy bitch. He nods, and Quentin starts to do an odd split, pulling some of the cards down toward his wrist and pushing others up, until he does a quick tap and a flip to split the deck in two. He fans out four cards and says, “Is yours one of these?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, and Quentin stacks the two into one deck again and starts over.

He does it three times – split, tap, turn, flash, is it one of these? Yes, Eliot tells him. He nods and drops the cards back together. It's so precise – he's counting the cards, he must be. His hands move easily, giving him the illusion of carelessness, but he must be controlling exactly where everything goes.

It's surprisingly hot.

“Now,” Quentin says, dealing the deck into two piles the old-fashioned way, “I don't know what your card was. But I'm going to tell you the answer based on a simple process of elimination. Are you ready?”

“Born ready,” Eliot says.

Quentin flips one of the half-decks over. It's the Queen of Spades. “It was a Queen,” Quentin says. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He nods and picks up the second half-deck, dealing it into two as well, and flips one over. King of Hearts. “Red. Yes?” Eliot nods. There are two cards left on the table, face down, and Quentin leans back in his chair like he's already done, sliding the top one off of the bottom. He flips over the King of Diamonds and says, “Diamonds,” and then pushes the last card toward Eliot. “Queen of Diamonds,” he says, soft and smoky and utterly sure, and Eliot knows what he'll see well before he goes ahead and flips that fancy bitch over. “Impressed?”

“I don't know,” Eliot says. “I asked for magic, and I have this feeling you might've just hustled me with math.”

“Oh, you're too smart for me,” Quentin says with a lazy smile, gathering the cards together. “Pythagoras would say that all philosophy is actually math. Maybe magic is, too. Order, chaos, probability. The world is coded in binary. Maybe it's just one big card trick.”

“It's not,” Eliot says.

“You sound very sure,” Quentin says.

“I'm sure that binaries are bullshit, yes.”

“Music is mathematical,” Quentin points out. “It's measured in the wavelength of the vibrations.”

Eliot smiles at him, feeling – so tender for this raw, too-tender boy who's always thinking and thinking and thinking about  _why anything_ , always counting cards in his head. “It's not,” he says gently.

Quentin looks for a minute like he's going to argue, but eventually he just shrugs and says, “Well, you're the musician.” Eliot's not sure that's true, but he's sure that Quentin is very much not, so. 

It's never elegant to wear out your welcome, so Eliot stands up to go, like he promised. He strokes Quentin's hair and kisses the top of his head, and this time Quentin seems more receptive to the touch, less like he's just enduring it. “See you around, okay?” Eliot says. “We miss you.”

“I know, yeah,” Quentin says. “I'm sorry. Oh, hey, Eliot?” he adds when Eliot has almost made it to the door. Eliot turns around. “Do you have a doctor thing tomorrow? I saw it on the calendar.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says.

Quentin glances back up from where he's already turning another puzzle piece around and around in his hand, studying the pattern of it. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “Nothing to worry about, I promise.”

 

Going to therapy looks, at least, a lot like it does in the movies. There's a hallway to wait in. There's a water cooler. Bookshelves and plants. Inside the office there are chairs and a loveseat and more plants. It's, you know. Soothing or whatever.

Eliot refuses to be soothed. He's probably going to have to fucking cry or something at some point, but goddamned if he's going to do it without making Adiyodi work for it.

William Adiyodi, MSW, isn't quite as generic as his surroundings, however; Eliot was picturing him older, which in retrospect he doesn't know why, because Kady is around Eliot's age, but also she seems like she might have daddy issues. Anyway, she doesn't, or at least not this kind of daddy issue; he's maybe thirty years old, but definitely not older than that, and he also happens to be an entire snack. That's a little annoying. Eliot's really going to have to cry in front of someone  _fuckable_ ? The indignity.

“So where do we start?” Eliot asks, settling into the corner of the loveseat and crossing his legs, draping his arm across the back of the seat.

Adiyodi shrugs. “It's your hour. Most people start with why they're here.”

“Truthfully?” Eliot says.

Adiyodi smiles at him. Ugh, he really is cute, this is going to be a nightmare. “I mean, things go faster if we cut straight to the truth, but like I said. Your hour.”

“Truthfully, I think – I'm really only here because my wife wanted me to come. I had a, uh. I had a panic attack a couple of weeks ago, and she thought. Maybe I should talk to someone.”

“But you disagree?”

Eliot thinks that over. “Kind of,” he says. “If I had them a lot, that would be one thing, but I don't. Look, I – we don't have to go on some kind of deep-sea expedition to find my issues, okay? My father was abusive, and it's, you know, I'm a little fucked up about it, but. Only a little. I saw him for the first time in ten years, and he put his hands on me, and – I had a reaction. It's not something that comes up in my daily life, and I have a restraining order now, so.”

He expects Adiyodi to argue with him, but he doesn't. He just glances over the papers he's holding on his lap – Eliot can't get a clear look, but they seem to be printouts of the stuff he filled out online – and says, “Ever been diagnosed with PTSD?”

“No,” Eliot says. “But just – for lack of trying, probably. I mean. I imagine I do probably have it.”

“What makes you say that?”

Eliot shrugs. “Intrusive thoughts. Tendency to dissociate under stress. Self-destructive tendencies. Trust issues. Difficulty forming healthy emotional attachments.”

“You've done your research,” Adiyodi says with a slight smile.

“Well, it's about me, and I'm pretty self-involved,” Eliot says.

“How does this mesh with what you just said about your history of abuse not coming up much in your daily life?” And that is – fuck. That's a point. Eliot has no idea how to respond. Adiyodi smirks at him and says, “Thanks for the list of goals, though, that's helpful. Which one do you want to start with?”

“You know, I was warned that you were kind of a dick,” Eliot says.

“Hey, I have my softer side,” Adiyodi says. “But if I sat here and told you we were going to work on loving and forgiving yourself and increasing your ability to be vulnerable without associating those experiences with vulnerability to abuse, I'm going to say you'd be out that door in about ten minutes.”

That number feels high, but. Yes, point taken. Still, Eliot has a right to lay out his boundaries, he's pretty sure, so he says, “I don't want to do like a  _Good Will Hunting_ thing where you make me cry and say it wasn't my fault. I know it wasn't my fault, and – I've already cried about it. I've cried about it a whole hell of a lot. So let's just. Do something different, okay?”

“Sorry, I'm not going to rule out crying altogether,” Adiyodi says. “But, good note. I'll keep it in mind. Where do you want to start? You want to tell me more about this panic attack, or shall we just pick something else off the list? I like  _trust issues_ , that's intriguingly vague.”

Eliot rolls his eyes, but. It is his hour. He's wasting a lot of time and money if he doesn't say something relevant, so he goes ahead and tells the story of the weekend before Halloween – about his father and Margo and the ring – about the flashback and the stairs and the gun. It takes a surprisingly long time to cover everything that needs to be covered.

When he's done, he's not exactly crying, but. He's had better days. Adiyodi gets up and brings him, of all fucking things, a bottle of Snapple from a mini fridge tucked behind his desk. Eliot checks the inside of the cap when he opens it:  _Texas is the only state that permits its residents to cast absentee ballots from space._ The more you know. “I'm going to say something nice to you now,” Adiyodi warns him, “and your instinct is going to be to minimize it or find some other way to blow it off, but try to resist that instinct, okay? Actually, I'd like you to sit there for just sixty seconds and just take it in, can you do that?” Eliot nods, only sort of listening. “Telling a complete stranger something like that about yourself is one of the hardest things people ever have to do. Most people waste at least a couple of sessions before they get there; most people aren't as brave as you are. You just walked in here, sat down, and did it, and that is incredibly badass.”

“Careful, I have a praise kink,” Eliot says before he remembers he's not supposed to say anything.

“Shh,” Adiyodi says. “Sixty seconds.”

Sixty seconds is a long time, actually, to do nothing at all, but it gives Eliot a little breathing room, to get himself back under control.

“Okay,” Adiyodi says when he's ready to be let out of talking-jail. “So for what it's worth, I think you're right, if you haven't had any more panic attacks in the past three weeks, there are probably more pressing things we could devote our time to.”

“I did that for fucking nothing?” Eliot says irritably, flipping the Snapple cap over and over between his fingers.

“Yeah, no, I'm pretty sure the fact that you have a pattern of being practically murdered by people who were supposed to love and take care of you is going to be  _a little relevant_ as we go forward.” Eliot's hand tightens, pressing the edges of the cap into his palm. “That's not how you think of it, is it?” Adiyodi says, and there's humor in his voice, but it doesn't feel like he's laughing at Eliot. More like he's laughing at – people. Life. “Look, I think in your case we need to commit ourselves to choosing the absolute bluntest language we possibly can. You're a smart guy, Eliot, and it's too easy for you to get on the internet and then roll up here talking about  _tendency to dissociate_ and  _healthy emotional attachments_ and use that to make everything theoretical. That's a crutch, and yeah, some people need that. But I don't think it's doing you any favors at this point. I think if this is going to be something that makes  _you_ feel better and not just your wife, you need to be able to lay everything on the table in very clear terms.”

That does sound – better. Good, even. “Okay,” Eliot says. “Yeah.”

“So if you think you're  _fucked up_ by the things you've been through, what does that mean? How does being fucked up show up in your actual life?”

Eliot opens his hand again and looks down. Texas, space. Two places he's never been. Two places among many. He can feel his thoughts start to drift, and he realizes he's – that's – wrong. If he's going to be here, he needs to be here. “I don't think I love my son as much as I'm supposed to,” Eliot hears himself say, from – a certain distance. From a place he doesn't think he's ever been before. “I mean, I – like him, but. It's been hard to.... It's easy for Margo, I guess, but. I think I'm just going through the motions, and I'm really scared he's going to feel it, and it's going to fuck him up. I want to be good to him, I do – care. I'm trying. I just think – for other people it's not so much work?”

“Okay,” Adiyodi says, as though it weren't like,  _the shittiest possible_ thing to say. “Anything else?”

Oh, well, hell, he's on a roll. “I think I walk away from things too easily,” Eliot says. “When they get hard. I quit acting because it was hard. I – usually don't get too involved with guys I might like, in case things get hard.”

“Usually,” Adiyodi repeats. “What happens when you do get involved with someone you like?”

_My fucking life falls apart?_ Eliot almost says, but that's – too vague. Almost too easy.  _Fall apart_ is like  _fucked up_ , right? It could mean anything, so basically it means nothing. 

“I don't know,” Eliot manages to say. “I. I honestly don't. There is somebody – and I feel a lot, he makes me – but it's. I want more, but I also kind of want out before things get worse, and I can't. I'm not trying to be difficult, I just. Don't know. Sometimes if I go deep enough, if I ask myself stuff like this, it's like everything just – gets dark. And I don't even know if there's anything down at the bottom, or if it just goes down in the dark forever.”

“That's okay,” Adiyodi says, as if it's actually okay and not like, a fucking psychotic break or something. “So, congratulations, actually. I think you finally got around to telling me why you're here.”  


 

“How was it?” Margo asks him in bed that night. She doesn't specify what  _it_ she's talking about, but obviously she doesn't have to.

“Godawful,” Eliot says, reaching over her and rubbing his thumb over her fingernails one at a time. “I'm actually so pissed at you.”

Margo snorts to express how concerned she is about  _that_ . After a minute she says, “So – are you going to quit?”

Eliot thinks it over as he squirms around to get her hair out from under his face. He's been thinking it over all day, actually. “Yeah, I guess,” he finally says. “But. Not quite yet.”

 

There's another week. It feels like it's been November since the dawn of time.

Friday would normally be a family day, but it's the week before Thanksgiving, and out of nowhere Quentin texts both Eliot and Margo and asks if it's okay if Eliot is his plus-one to the monthly cocktail party Quentin's department has. Eliot's never been invited to those before; he's not even sure if Quentin goes normally. It feels like a big deal.

Quentin won't give him any guidance on what to wear, however. When Eliot tries to get a sense of the general vibe, Quentin texts him back with, _If I had the audacity to give you fashion advice? Wear whatever you want, you always do._ Without any tone of voice to modulate it, Eliot thinks it comes out sounding incredibly bitchy, but he decides to give Q the benefit of the doubt and assume he was trying to be playful.

He wears whatever he wants. He's overdressed, but that's how Eliot prefers it anyway.

It's at the home of Quentin's drunk Russian dissertation advisor, to whom Quentin has not especially warmed up in the past few months, but he does have a very well-stocked bar. Eliot slips into the bartender role entirely by accident, but he doesn't mind. It's been a while, actually, since he had to think up a drink on the fly, and having an unfamiliar bar makes it feel even more like a game show that Eliot intends to win. He comes up with a blend of rye and Cynar and a dash of coffee liqueur that's smokey and autumnal and even happens to match his outfit, which is a happy coincidence. People seem to like it; most of them come back for another before they switch over to hot toddys to take out in the backyard around the firepit.

He meets a lot of people, most of whom he's never heard of and is unlikely to remember. He finally gets to meet Quentin's office mate, the elusive Poppy Kline, who is a really annoyingly beautiful redhead who rambles on tipsily about how much everyone loves Quentin. “He has his moments,” Eliot agrees.

“And I know he adores you,” Poppy says, which comes as – a surprise. “He's always talking about you and Margo, what great parents you are, how lucky Teddy is to have you.”

That clears it up a little. “Isn't that sweet of him,” Eliot says dryly.

Eliot has no reason to be pissed off. She's not some close friend, she's just the colleague Quentin was assigned to share a cramped office with, and it's perfectly reasonable that their small talk has focused in on Quentin's  _child_ and not who Quentin is hooking up with. They're adults, after all.

It's still a huge relief when Quentin finds him and takes hold of his hand, tugging him out toward the patio and the firepit. Eliot doesn't think he's – overly possessive, it's not about wanting people to know that Quentin is taken (if Quentin is taken, Eliot's still not completely clear on that, which is his own fault, he knows), it's just. Stressful, when he isn't sure what's allowable and what's not.

Everything, it seems, is allowable, and even though Eliot has only been introduced all night as  _this is Eliot_ , Quentin isn't shy or secretive about settling his folding chair right up against Eliot's and linking his arm under Eliot's arm, their hands still laced tightly together. Quentin seems to be – in a good mood, hardly at the center of the conversation, but listening and smiling in all the right spots, not lost and distant like Eliot's been seeing him lately. Eliot is only half-following the conversation, which seems to be mostly about Marx on one side of the circle and  _American Gods_ on the other, neither of which Eliot has any particular thoughts about. Someone offers Quentin a joint, which he surprises Eliot by accepting, and as he smokes it he becomes increasingly relaxed and cuddly.

So now Quentin is out at work, if he wasn't before. Eliot is – proud of him, although that almost feels patronizing, like maybe he's just projecting his own drama onto Quentin. Quentin isn't a big oversharer, no, but he's never seemed fearful of being discovered, in the way that Eliot was right up until he wasn't anymore.

Quentin shares the last half of the joint with him, and when he passes it over, he pauses to touch a spontaneous little kiss to the corner of Eliot's mouth. It's as intimate as they've been since Halloween, and it makes Eliot dizzy and achy with want.

_He's my boyfriend_ , Eliot thinks as he smokes, testing out the words in his head to see if they match up with reality. Eliot still isn't sure. You can't really call them  _casual_ anymore; maybe they weren't ever really that. Friends – yeah, yes, Eliot feels the place in his chest where  _friends_ sinks in, where it fits and settles and belongs. They are friends, and Eliot thinks they still would be even if – when – if and when the rest of it comes to an end. But obviously  _friends_ doesn't really account for – all the rest of it – and  _friends with benefits_ feels technically accurate, but also entirely too flippant.

He's overthinking it, he knows. There already is a word for people who like each other and like having sex with each other and give each other their time and attention and affection over an extended period of time, it's  _boyfriends_ , and this weird, reflexive insistence that it must be something, almost anything other than  _boyfriends_ is starting to feel less like  _taking it slow_ and more like  _difficulty forming healthy emotional attachments_ .

On the other hand. On the other hand. Maybe they've – missed their window? A boyfriend is something you  _have_ , and even sitting here under the cold stars getting gently crossfaded while they snuggle in full view of everyone Quentin knows....

It's hard to feel like he  _has_ Quentin.

It's easy to feel, even now, like he's slipping away.

They stay a little later than they planned; Quentin's mood is better than anticipated, and it takes Eliot a little longer than anticipated to sober up enough to drive.

“I love you,” Quentin says in the quiet of the car.

Eliot looks over at him; he's leaning against the window, gazing up and out as if maybe he's talking to the stars. “That's – new,” Eliot says.

“Not really,” Quentin says. “Not that new.”

“I mean, saying it,” Eliot clarifies. Quentin makes a noise of understanding, but doesn't offer further explanation. Eliot's not sure what kind of explanation he was expecting. It's pretty self-explanatory, isn't it? “You know,” Eliot begins awkwardly. “You know I....”

“El,” he says, a note of fondness in his voice and, one octave lower, a note of frustration. “Don't ruin it, okay? It just. Is what it is.”

He doesn't know what that means. But he doesn't want to ruin it, so he doesn't ask.

 

On Monday Ted brings home the obligatory handprint-turkey artwork, and Eliot realizes that they've reached the point beyond which they can no longer procrastinate about Thanksgiving plans.

He knows a few things for sure: Margo is not capable of cooking a turkey. Eliot does not want to cook a turkey. Thanksgiving is kind of bullshit in general, just a cut-rate table-read for Christmas.

“We can just go out to eat,” Eliot says, lying on his back in bed while Margo goes through her skin-care routine in the bathroom. “Plenty of people do that. It can be our tradition.”

She doesn't answer him right away, so he assumes she's busy. After a minute, she leans in the bathroom doorway, fresh-scrubbed and looking slightly guilty. “I kind of. Made plans.”

“You made plans?” Eliot repeats dumbly. “What kind of plans?”

“Someone invited me – us. Big family thing. Turkey, football, house full of strays, the whole deal. I said Ted and I would go.”

“What, I'm not invited? Wait,  _who_ invited you?”

“You were invited, but I just thought.... I didn't think you'd want to come. And it's. Josh. His family is in South Bend.”

“Josh Hoberman? Why-- Jesus Christ,” he says as he registers the odd, tense way that Margo is not-quite looking at him, the way she's fumbling around these basic, inoffensive facts. Eliot sits up in bed. “Are you  _dating Josh_ ?” What. The actual. Fuck.

“No!” Margo says. “Not dating. Hooking up, sometimes.”

Eliot pulls up his knees and rests his elbows on them, scrubbing his hands into his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he repeats helplessly. “You're his supervisor, Bambi, what the fuck are you thinking? What are we going to do if you get fired and then  _sued for sexual harassment_ ?”

“Well, that's obviously not going to happen,” she scoffs. “Whatever, we like each other and it's hot and convenient, I only have so many options these days, in case you haven't noticed. Anyway, I think – it would be nice for Ted. South Bend, I mean. And of course if you want to come you can come, but I thought it might be awkward for you, and to be honest, I didn't think you'd be okay leaving Q alone all weekend, given, you know. How he's been.”

“I think you're taking a stupid risk,” Eliot says.

“It's my risk to take,” Margo says.

And the thing is, it's actually not, because Margo has a fucking husband and child who depend on her. That's what Eliot could say – should say. But he's just. He's worn out. He feels like he spends every minute of every day worrying about something going wrong, about losing what he has, about....

Never having that moment back again – that moment on his birthday when he thought that twenty-seven could actually be his year – when he thought that maybe the world gives you as much happiness as you think you can handle, and that maybe he could keep expanding like this indefinitely, asking for more and actually getting it.

It's fucking exhausting, and he doesn't want to fight with Margo on top of it. So instead he says, “I hope you know what the fuck you're doing.”

“This could work,” she insists. “It's working now.”

“Yeah,” he says. Whatever. “If you see Mayor Pete while you're there, get his autograph for me.”

 

So on Wednesday afternoon, Josh and Margo pick Ted up from school and drive to South Bend. Eliot goes to work like always, and when he comes home he brings the groceries and his Crock Pot over to Q's and sets up chili for tomorrow.

Quentin is asleep on the couch, curled up tight to give Fester room to nestle between his feet, and counter-intuitive though it is, the easiest way for Eliot to keep from waking him is to sleep in the bedroom by himself.

He wakes up a few hours later, not by himself anymore. It's still dark out – not pitch-black, but not daytime, either – and Quentin is crawling under the covers with him, looking for – something. Refuge, it feels like. He only relaxes when Eliot wraps an arm around him and kisses his hair.

_He's my boyfriend_ , Eliot tries again. It feels...better, now. This helps. God, Eliot has been trying so fucking hard not to notice or acknowledge that it – sucks when Quentin doesn't want to touch him. That it hurts, even when he tells himself that Q's having a hard time – that it's not about Eliot at all. It doesn't matter. It still sucks, and it hurts, and it's not fair. And that's life. But it's such hard work, pretending all the time that just because Eliot understands how life works, that means he's fine with it.

Eliot tends to give up on things, once they get this hard.

He knows,  _he knows_ he'll regret it for the rest of his life if he gives up on...this. On Q. He knows. But it's still.... He's still tired all the damn time.

Luckily it's a holiday, and he can go back to sleep.

They both sleep until after eleven, and Eliot might've slept longer, except that Quentin gets up and brings a box of Pop-Tarts back to bed with him. “You know I don't let the six-year-old eat this crap for breakfast,” Eliot says as Quentin opens a packet and offers him one. Not that he doesn't also take the Pop-Tart.

“You can't tell me what to do, you're not my real dad,” Quentin says dryly. “The chili smells good.”

“Thanks. And – thanks for letting me crash over here last night.”

Quentin frowns a little. “You – you know you're, that I don't think of you as like, a guest, right?”

“I am, though,” Eliot points out. “We don't live together.”

Quentin frowns a little more, like he somehow wasn't aware of this and isn't sure he approves. “Well, still,” he says. “You can sleep here anytime you want. I didn't know you were waiting for me to invite you.”

_Of fucking course_ he's been waiting for-- God, Quentin can be frustrating. But Eliot forces himself to sound calm and relaxed as he says, “Seemed like you've wanted space lately. I was just trying to be respectful.”

“That's not really what I've wanted. I just. I want things to be back to normal, you know? You're not the only one who wants that.”

“I know,” Eliot says.

It's not much of a Thanksgiving, in the classical sense. They eat chili and chips and salsa at Quentin's breakfast bar and drink the cheapest hard cider Eliot could find. They don't even really get dressed. In the afternoon, Quentin works on his puzzle while Eliot plays whatever he feels like on the piano and, liberated from the need not to interrupt Quentin's acts of higher learning, allows himself to sing along. By nine or so they're hungry again, and Quentin makes scrambled eggs and toast, and they play gin rummy on the bed, getting crumbs everywhere.

It's – good. It feels like hanging out with Quentin always used to. If Eliot were the kind of person who believed in miracles, he might chalk it up to a Thanksgiving miracle. He might believe...that the weather was finally changing for real.

Eliot doesn't know when – the weather changes between them, but when he feels it he chooses not to wait for an invitation. He just shifts forward on his knees, ignoring the scattered cards and empty plates between them, and cups his hands behind Quentin's neck, drawing him into a kiss, a real goddamn kiss. Quentin hesitates for a moment, then makes a soft noise against Eliot's lips and runs his hands up Eliot's arms to clutch at his shoulders.

As quickly as he can, before one or both of them starts fucking thinking again, Eliot gets the bed cleared off, and then he's free to lower Quentin down to it, nuzzling his neck. “I missed you,” Quentin says softly. “God, I know that-- But I did, I did miss you all the time.”

“I'm right here,” Eliot says, splaying a hand out over Quentin's midsection. Willing that sense of  _presence_ to transfer through the palm of his hand, willing Quentin to feel it and understand.

“I was so sure you'd be gone. That when you saw. That you wouldn't want. I was trying to – make it easier, I guess? On both of us. Mostly on me. It's my fault, it was stupid. I'm so sorry, El. I don't want you to go.”

“I won't,” Eliot says. He strokes the back of his fingers down Quentin's stubbled cheek. “Do you want to talk?” He has another therapy appointment next week, and he still hasn't even told Q about the first one. That should happen, at some point.

Quentin flicks his gaze down between them, then looks up into Eliot's eyes, warm and bold and happy in the golden lamplight. God, it almost stops Eliot's heart. He hasn't even been willing to admit to himself how scared he was that he'd never see the way that  _happy_ looks in Quentin's eyes ever again. “Gorgeous,” Quentin says, carding his fingers into Eliot's hair, “I want to do  _everything_ with you.”

It snows on Sunday morning. By then they're out of chili, and cider, and lube. It could theoretically be an inauspicious sign, here at the beginning of their first winter together, but fortunately neither of them are superstitious.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Eliot just barely has his eyes open (well, they were open when he turned off his alarm – right now he's kind of in the midst of a very slow blink, like a two-to-five minute blink cycle...) when he hears what sounds like the front door. Margo is still drying her hair in the bathroom, so it can't be her, and Eliot's over-stressed limbic system attempts to respond to being home-invaded and/or his small child wandering free, but his inner lizard really just wants to – not respond to that. It's warm under the covers.

A minute later he starts to smell coffee. Eliot is pretty sure Ted doesn't know how to brew coffee, so it's either the world's sweetest home invader or – Q, he guesses. Both seem equally unlikely at this hour on a Tuesday, when people are not traditionally robbed and Q definitely doesn't have class until 11:30.

Coffee is Eliot's current least-guilt-inducing addiction, though, so he puts on a robe and goes to check the situation out. “What the hell are you doing up?” he tells Quentin by way of hello, and then tries to make himself seem less cranky by kissing Quentin's cheek as he hands Eliot a mug of coffee.

“Just getting a jump on my day,” Quentin says. “I kind of – dicked around in my own little world a lot over the last couple of weeks, and now I actually do have to get a bunch of things done before the end of the semester. Including, I have a doctor's appointment, so I'm gonna. Yeah, get – that done too. And I thought you could maybe use a quiet morning, so would it be okay if I took Ted to breakfast and then dropped him off at school? I kind of – I know I haven't been--”

“It's okay,” Eliot says. “It's more than okay.” He tugs Quentin closer with the arm that's not occupied with coffee and leans down to kiss him lightly. “Ugh, I'm never going to hear the last of this. _But Dad lets me eat cinnamon rolls and chocolate milk for breakfast._ ”

“I could make him order something healthy,” Quentin says.

“You literally could not, you are the worst fucking pushover when he begs. Even Margo doesn't just roll over like you do.” Not that Eliot endorses the parenting strategies of Margo “Only If Eliot Says You Can” Hanson-Waugh, but at least her cowardice doesn't actively undermine Eliot's authority the way Quentin “Just Don't Tell Eliot, Okay?” Coldwater does. (Ted always rats him out, because there is no honor among six-year-olds.) Seriously, Eliot is working _alone_ , here; he supposes it's what he gets for being attracted primarily to soft bitches.

Unbothered by guilt, apparently, Quentin just leans against the sink and says, “Hey, I want to talk to you about Christmas presents, too, if you have a minute.”

This sounds intriguing, but Eliot doesn't seem to have a minute, since just then Ted emerges from his room and lets out a T-Rex roar as he runs at Quentin, who laughs and swoops him off his feet with much complaining about Ted's outrageous size and obviously superhuman might. The two of them have exactly the same giggle; Eliot never noticed that before. He's so besotted by the discovery that when Margo comes out of the bathroom, she manages to dart behind him and fill her travel mug with _the whole rest of the pot of coffee_ and fuck off to work with it like the heartbreaker she is.

It's like no one in Eliot's life even lives in a _society_ , must he civilize all three of these monsters all by himself? He needs one of those Von Trapp whistles.

Teeth are brushed and homework folders are located and Eliot lives through the same conversation about why the Pokemon socks are not permitted under St. Mary Cathedral's dress code that he's lived through fifty times before, like the most boring _Groundhog Day_ reboot imaginable. He rushes through the whole process a bit more than usual, not just because he's secretly planning a mimosa-and-maybe-some-porn retreat back to bed as soon as he's alone, but also because he genuinely does want Coldwater and Coldwater to have as much bonding time as possible before school. Ted's not one to complain much – he'll answer truthfully if you ask him how he's doing, but somehow he's already figured out that it's not really the done thing to make a fuss about the things you want, which is a hell of a lesson to soak up by six – but Eliot knows he's felt his father's distance sharply, and he looks absolutely elated now that he's realizing he's going to be the one and only focus of Q's attention, if only for an hour.

Eliot can relate.

 

It's November, or it's December – Eliot's losing track. The last month lasted ten thousand years, and now suddenly Eliot has another therapy appointment, and a home visit to check up on Ted's general progress, and they need to take Ted to see Santa and – buy decorations? Eliot's not much for performative holiday nonsense, but then, he's not a small child, so maybe this actually shouldn't be about what _he's_ into.

They should, like – do Christmas. Eliot knows that's what a normal family would do, and fuck knows Ted needs every shred of normal he can get his little hands on, what with the year he's had. But Eliot feels strangely paralyzed, caught between his perfectionist tendencies and his general disdain for mandated merriment. He impulse buys a table centerpiece at Target that has pinecones and two grazing reindeer, and then he leaves it in the trunk of his car.

It's December, and there's so much to do. Eliot doesn't know where to start, so he just – doesn't start. Nobody seems to notice.

He gets the job at the Wellspring – they're gearing up for their big annual _A Christmas Carol_ event, where a massive cast of community thespians rounds out the smaller rep company, and there are bins and bins full of Victorian costumes to match to bodies if possible, to alter if not. Harriet takes him in stride from the moment he walks in the door, delegating like he's always been there, and Eliot finds himself taking over most of the fittings without ever having actually agreed to that. It's a good system, though – Harriet is some kind of legit design genius, he realizes quickly, and he realizes just as quickly that she's also more than slightly a bitch. Eliot admires that (“you remind me of my wife” he tells her within fifteen minutes of meeting her, which is a compliment, although admittedly kind of a passive-aggressive one), but Eliot is better at putting the novice volunteer actors at ease, and at least selling them on the illusion that someone is fully devoted to making them look their best. No one actually has time to devote to making Impoverished London Factory Girl Three look her best, but it's the kind of lie that Eliot can stand behind without guilt; he knows what it's like to throw your heart at a stupid little nothing role, and to feel as lucky and as terrified as if you were the star. He finds himself effortlessly kind of, well, tender and – and _devoted_ to each of these total strangers, and he ends up putting in half again as many hours as he's being paid for, just because.... Well, hey. It's a hard life, and people who love the stage for its own sake, with no thought of money or fame – don't they deserve to look like stars too? Maybe they deserve it most of all, right?

There's enough work to do that he takes some of it home. Eliot doesn't have a bedroom anymore and he can't quite figure out where to set up his sewing machine, but Quentin is still spending pretty much every night at the library, so Eliot just makes an executive decision and moves his shit over there. He's tempted to move Quentin's thirty-percent intact puzzle off the table, but honestly he kind of doesn't want to touch the damn thing, so he colonizes the coffee table instead. It's not the most comfortable set-up, and he spends an inordinate amount of time trying to keep Fester from bedding down in the petticoats, but it's only temporary.

“I can't believe you're still up working,” Quentin tells him when he gets home around midnight.

“So are you,” Eliot points out.

“Finals aren't over yet. They haven't even started.”

Eliot shrugs. “Neither have dress rehearsals. Speaking of, they're comping us tickets for the Sunday matinee on the twenty-second, do you want to come to that? It's boring, it's just _A Christmas Carol_ , but you can – you know, marvel at the precision artistry of the hemlines.”

“Sure,” Quentin says, sitting down on the sofa behind Eliot's shoulder. “Is it okay if I invite Poppy?”

Jesus Christ, first Hoberman, now this? “Are we double-dating?” Eliot asks, which is supposed to be wittier than it comes out, or at least less snide.

“You know, I say this with all the affection in the world,” Quentin says, “but your jealousy thing is your least sexy quality. In case you're curious.”

“I'm not _jealous_ ,” Eliot says. “I don't-- That's beneath me. People should be jealous of _me_.”

“And I'm sure they are,” Quentin says, playing idly with Eliot's hair. “No, we're not _double-dating_ , she's my friend and she's got life stuff going on, she could use a little support. I'm not dating Poppy, I'm not dating Robin, I'm not dating – what's his face, your friend at work who gives bad head, I'm dating _you_ , so don't be weird. It _is_ beneath you.”

Not that Eliot was worried – not really. He finds himself relaxing into Quentin's touch, closing his eyes and leaning back with his shoulder against Quentin's knee. “I'll get five tickets,” he says.

“So, since I have you here, and we're kind of on the subject,” Quentin says, speaking a little slower than usual, as if he's expending effort to get all his words lined up neatly and evenly. “There's something I wanted to talk to you about.” Eliot grunts a little in acknowledgement. “So – you're really hard to shop for, and I didn't – if it's okay, hopefully it's okay – we could go a different direction from like, the kind of gift you unwrap.”

“That sounds a little like I'm not getting a Christmas present,” Eliot says. He hasn't figured out what to buy Quentin, either, but at least he's not surrendering quite yet.

“No, I was just thinking, a less traditional--”

“Ugh, what even is the point of having a rich boyfriend if you don't get gifts?” Eliot says.

Only when Quentin's hand stops moving over his hair does Eliot realize that he just – said that. Eliot didn't have a speech or anything planned for such an occasion, but if he had, it certainly wouldn't have been _that_.

But after a moment's pause, Quentin tugs softly in his hair and says mildly, “I don't think I'm all that rich, actually, but. I did get you something.” With his free hand, Quentin pulls an envelope out of the messenger bag beside him and drops it over Eliot's shoulder. The corner of it bounces off the cat's head, and it lets out a grunt of something that's uncannily like exasperation until Eliot rubs its ears enough to lull it back to sleep, chin on Eliot's thigh.

He opens the envelope, and it's a print-out of tickets ordered online – two tickets for a weeknight show of _Hadestown_ , Tuesday the seventeenth. “Oh,” Eliot says, and if his brain is lagging a little, he blames the hour and the soothing effect of Quentin's touch, “do you want us to see a--” He freezes up totally when his eyes catch on the words _Walter Kerr Theater_. The fucking – the Walter Kerr – “It's on – but this is – in New York,” Eliot says, like a fucking idiot. Of course it's in New York; _Broadway theaters_ generally are.

“Well, I promised Julia I'd visit between finals and Christmas,” Quentin says. “I thought we'd. Make a long weekend out of it – or, not quite a weekend, it's – the flights are Saturday and then Wednesday, so. Four nights, if you, if you were – interested in meeting my friends and, um, seeing where I used to live and, and all that. And I know you like _Hamilton_ , but I, I couldn't really get us tickets – but this one is good? I heard it was good?”

“It's good,” Eliot assures him. “It's amazing. Q, this is – amazing, but you know I can't just – take off for New York.”

“You can, though,” Quentin tells him with a warm smile in his voice. “I cleared it with your wife.”

Eliot disregards the costumes and evicts the cat, clambering up to the couch so he can get his hands around Q's face and his lips on Q's lips. “Thank you,” he manages to say roughly, between kisses. “I mean – yes. Yes, I want to – let's do it.” Quentin nods and leans in to kiss him harder. “I feel like an asshole,” Eliot admits. “I still have no idea what to get you.”

“Jesus, El,” Quentin says with a crack in his voice. “You already gave me – are you kidding me? Please don't, don't worry about it, okay? You gave me my whole _life_ this year. All I need is.... I love you. I just need you to – let me do that.”

“Okay,” Eliot says. “You...can.” Quentin laughs softly and nips along Eliot's jawline. “I've never,” Eliot begins, but – that's not quite what he's trying to say, so he backs up and starts over. “No one's ever done this for me before.”

“Really?” Quentin says. “I kind of assumed.... It seems like you've dated some jet-setters in your day.”

It's an effort to remember, actually. It was a literal lifetime ago, and falling further into the distance by the day. “I've been on trips, yeah,” he says. “Vail, Vegas, Baja. One time Ibiza for a music festival. One time, I think, Singapore? I was actually really coked up for that whole trip, I don't remember much. But not New York.”

“Well, that's ridiculous,” Quentin says, sounding genuinely annoyed by this information like the loyal New York boy that he is. “You're going to love it.”

“I already do,” Eliot says, which is – the best he can – the closest-- And Quentin nuzzles into the crook of Eliot's neck, firm and warm and loyal, like he understands.

 

It's December, and Eliot puts on his big-boy panties and buys a damn Christmas tree. They can't just not do this; they're already the weirdest people they know, and they can't just go full Addams Family and skip straight from Halloween to New Year's Eve. It's not fair to Ted, who's under enough strain moving through a world that's chanting _family family good cheer and love and family_ at him while everything is – the way it is.

They can't not do this, and Margo's drowning in deadlines and Quentin is punch-drunk with finals and the higher dosage of his meds that the doctor put him on, so _Eliot_ has to do this. He has to trim a tree and bake cookies and wrap presents and be a parent volunteer at the school Christmas party and take Teddy shopping and to see the light displays downtown, and twice in the first half of December Eliot ends up sitting on his kitchen floor with a bottle of rum clutched in his fist, crying quietly against his knees because _he's not good at this._ He waited too long to try _good cheer and love and family_ , and now it feels impossibly alien and off-putting to him, simultaneously too heavy to carry and terrifyingly insubstantial. Eliot thought he could just brazen his way through it like he always has before – learn how to act like a father the way he learned how to act happy when he was seventeen and learned how to act worldly and jaded at nineteen and learned how to act like he had money when he was twenty-one, and maybe he has learned his lines, but even though no one calls him out on it, he knows he's not able to sell it this time. Not really.

He wants it to be real.  _Eliot_ wants to be real, like Margo is brutally, viscerally real, like Quentin is real and raw and exposed like a nerve sticking up through a broken tooth. Maybe they're in pain – Quentin certainly is, and Eliot has his suspicions about Margo – but Jesus Christ, it has to be better, doesn't it? Honest pain? Honest  _something_ ?

At least he doesn't wake anyone else up, thank fuck.

Still, Christmas has to be done, and Eliot has to do it. The internet saves him, as always; he dives deep into the Mommy Blogverse and takes copious notes based on articles called things like 18 Fun Family Christmas Traditions to Start This Year! and 25 Ways to Make Holiday Memories That Last a Lifetime, and he knows he's starting too late and then taking off in the middle of the season, but he – tries, you know? He and Ted learn how to make something called reindeer food, which is a gross sugar mess and Ted loves it. Eliot sews big fuzzy Christmas stockings for all of them and strings them across the window seat nook. Once they get the tree fully decorated (YouTube shows Eliot how to hand-cut those parchment snowflake things, and it's fast work, so he threads a bunch of them around the brand-new out-of-the-box set of gold ornaments to make the whole thing look less matchy-matchy and give it a little rustic touch that complements the dining room table), he and Ted and Margo designate an official night to camp out in the living room and drink hot chocolate and pretend the fake tree smells foresty. Eliot makes a playlist of Christmas songs he can tolerate, and he takes pictures of everything, because maybe he'll learn to scrapbook or something someday? It's not impossible. He even takes Ted to one of those weird living nativities with real donkeys and camels and shit. So no one can say Eliot isn't putting in the effort.

He thinks it's going okay. Ted still has nightmares a couple of times a week, but the child psychologist says _you just have to be patient, it doesn't mean anything is wrong_ – other than, Eliot assumes, the obvious.

Eliot's psychologist (who turns out for some reason to go by Penny? Eliot doesn't get that, but he's only paying sliding-scale, which he doubts buys him the right to ask Penny any personal questions) says _has anyone suggested it might not be going okay, other than you?_ Eliot's getting hip to Penny's ways by now, the lazy ju-jitsu he uses to make Eliot admit that most of the things he's inclined to bitch about are distractions. Eliot's still holding his own, but one of these days soon he knows he's going to break down and say _okay, maybe I like seeing the kid happy, maybe I even love him, but selfish is my personal brand, and if even I can feel these things, these normal things, then why couldn't anyone feel them for me? I was cute-ish. I tried my best. I don't think I was asking for too much. I was a child._ And then he's going to cry and Penny's going to say _it wasn't your fault_ and it's just going to be a pathetic cliché. Eliot is successfully staving off that scene for now, but he can feel the clock ticking.

Margo says _why are you so goddamn tense all the time?_ and Eliot says, _what are you, my fucking therapist?_ and has a moment of crystal-clear empathy with Quentin. That shit really is annoying after all, Eliot sees it now.

Quentin goes with them to the living nativity and stands arm-in-arm with Eliot watching a camel chew hay while Ted dashes around with two of his swim-friends and an adorable children's choir sings Angels We Have Heard On High in at least seven different keys. Quentin says, “You look like I feel.” His breath appears and disappears in the cold air, as soft as his voice.

“Fuck me, that bad?” Eliot says with a slight, crooked smile down at him.

Quentin huffs a laugh. “Tired, is all I meant.” Eliot is tired, but this afternoon Quentin turned in all his final grades, and tomorrow morning they both get on a plane to New York, so Eliot really can't complain. “You don't have to do everything all by yourself, you know,” Quentin says gently.

Which is hilarious. But Quentin's heart is in the right place, so Eliot just says, “We'll see if you're singing the same tune when we get home and Margo's been in charge for five days. They'll both be completely feral. They'll be subsisting entirely on reindeer food and virgin mojitos. Ted will have seen his first Tarantino movie. She'll probably pierce his ears.”

“They need you desperately,” Quentin says, and he's probably making fun of Eliot, but he's always so  _nice_ about it that Eliot can't work up any real umbrage. “But – so do I. And it's my turn.”

Eliot smiles at the camel, who gazes back at him, unimpressed. Eliot figures with seasonal holiday work like this, she probably sees family drama that puts theirs to shame all the time.

It's a weirdly reassuring thought.

 

Ted has been prepared in advance – he has a Transformers calendar in his bedroom, which is not kept up in the excruciating detail of the Google calendar that dominates Eliot's life, but the big stuff is on there, including this trip – but when he comes home worn out from the living nativity and Eliot starts to pack, the reality apparently sinks in.

The reality, it turns out, is unwelcome. First he seems panicky (initially Eliot thinks the idea of airplanes scares him, but that's not it), and then he seems angry. He wants Eliot to stay. He wants to go with them. He's been before, he went to New York last year and rode a Ferris wheel and they went to the zoo with Alice, and Eliot is aware that it's his legal and moral responsibility to be, like, _better than an agitated child_ , but holy shit, is that ever almost too much for him. “Well, I've never been,” he says, drawing every ounce of cool he's ever possessed around him for armor. “So this time it's my turn. Look, it's just a few days, okay? I'll be home in time for us all to go to the play together.”

After the fear and the anger apparently comes despair, and Ted winds up bundled on Margo's lap on the couch, little arms locked around her neck as he sobs despondently into her shoulder. “I know, Peaches,” she lilts as she strokes his back. “We're going to miss them, and it's hard to miss people you love, isn't it?” Because clearly Margo thinks it's misplaced separation anxiety stemming from the loss of his beloved granny. Personally, Eliot thinks he's resentful of someone else stealing the time with Quentin that he's starved for and he thinks belongs to him. Probably both of them are projecting like motherfuckers. Who knows what a cranky kid who barely even has cause-and-effect reasoning skills in his soft little brain is really thinking?

Margo works her bedtime magic while Eliot keeps packing. She must be well beyond pissed at Eliot, though, because when she comes back into the bedroom she doesn't even give him the verbal lashing she normally would. She just snaps her fingers sharply under his nose and points to the bedroom door like she's ordering a misbehaving puppy out of the house and says, “Go talk to him.” It's not advice.

Anyway, he was planning to. When both of them had a chance to calm down a little.

Ted sleeps with his door half-open, but Eliot always gives it a soft knock with two knuckles when he comes in anyway. Boundaries and all. He sits down in the beanbag next to Ted's bed, and Ted unsuccessfully pretends to be asleep. “Still mad at me?” Eliot asks.

“I hate Christmas,” Ted says into his pillow.

“You know something?” Eliot says. “So do I.”

That's at least surprising enough to make Ted forget he's trying to snub Eliot. Ted turns over to face him. “You do?”

“I-- Kind of. A lot of it. I guess I like some parts. Aren't there parts that you like?”

Ted thinks that over and then says with what Eliot thinks might be the exact tone of grudging magnanimity that Eliot himself uses when he's letting himself be overruled in a domestic dispute, “I guess I liked sleeping in the living room.”

“Yeah, with the tree?” Eliot says. “That wasn't bad. But I don't know, overall? Christmas just – isn't really my thing. I didn't have very good ones when I was your age.”

“Didn't you get anything from Santa?” Ted asks, a note of sympathy creeping into his voice. Eliot tilts his head back against the wall and looks up at the glow-in-the-dark Pokemon stickers on Ted's ceiling, which used to be Eliot's ceiling. It's so – endearing, that the absolute worst Christmas tragedy Ted can imagine is being ignored by Santa Claus.

He's such an odd little kid in some ways, so bogged down by loss and impermanence, but also so carefully sheltered. The longer Eliot knows him, the less he feels like he can predict what Ted is going to grow into, and that's – nice, actually. He's only six. He shouldn't be carved in stone just yet.

“I think sometimes I did,” Eliot says. He doesn't remember specific presents, but he thinks there was always at least something. He's not sure. A lot of his childhood is – hazy when he tries to carve down into specifics. “I just. I didn't have a lot of family, and my dad – he didn't actually – like me very much.”

“What about your mom?” Ted asks.

“I didn't really have one,” Eliot says.

“Oh,” Ted says. “She – she died, like my mom?”

“Yeah.” Eliot thinks he should probably say something more than that, but. What, really? That's. Pretty much it. “So. Anyway. I'm sorry you feel bad, but – this trip is kind of – my Christmas present, and I really want to go, you know? It's just this once. I promise we'll call every night, and next time I go to New York, we'll all go together, okay?” Eliot is by no means above bargaining, or begging.

Ted is so quiet that even though Eliot can see his eyes are still open, he almost thinks Ted has fallen asleep. Eliot leans up and reaches across him for his stuffed Honeyclaw and frees it from where it's wedged against the wall, placing it snugly against Ted's chest. Ted's arm curls around it. “Is my dad gonna move back to New York?” he asks. He sounds so small. He is so small.

“No, hey,” Eliot says. “ _No_ . Why would you think that?” But of course, one or the other of them, Ted or Quentin, getting on a plane and vanishing out of the other's life – that's Ted's status quo. The last six months has been a trip through one of those hidden, unexpected doors into a new world, and it's not crazy at all, now that Eliot thinks about it, for Ted to wonder how long he'll be allowed to stay in Fantasy Land. “Listen to me,” Eliot says, and he doesn't mean to sound stern and foreboding, but he can't help it sometimes, it's the dinner theater Shakespeare training coming out in him. “Listen to me, I will not let that happen. I know he's not around as much as you want him to be, but he's not leaving. He lives here now, with – with us, okay?”

“But--” Ted tries.

Eliot reaches out and covers half the kid's head with his own big paw. “I will not let that happen,” he repeats. “You're going to stay here and have fun with Margo for a few days, and then your dad and I are both coming back home. We're all going to see the play together, and we'll all be here on Christmas. I promise you, Teddy. I promise. Don't I always do what I promise you?” Ted nods. “Okay, then. Are we good?” Hesitantly, Ted nods again, and finally Eliot feels like he can catch his breath. “You want me to sing to you?”

“Can you sing the time song?”

The time song is Time After Time, and it's Ted's favorite; he finds it relaxing, because he doesn't have the cognitive skills to parse out just how dark the lyrics actually are. After all, even though Ted knows all too well that good things end and it breaks your heart when they do, he's still just a child.

Eliot gives his head a little kiss before he leaves the room. He's not sure if Ted is awake for that or not.

 

They have to leave pretty early in the morning for Indianapolis, especially because Quentin's anxiety will not allow them to try skating through security, so he needs to be at the airport three full hours before the plane leaves. That's fine; Eliot sleeps in the car on the way.

It's odd, being alone with Quentin – not bad, just odd. They haven't spent much time alone since Quentin was in the full bloom of his depression, those endless-seeming hours when Q worked on his puzzle or pretended to sleep on the couch and Eliot picked his way through  _Selections from VH1's 100 Greatest Songs of the '80s_ on the piano. Quentin's been better since Thanksgiving, of course – or it seems like it, anyway. Both of them have been so busy, but when they do meet up for something, or even just run into each other coming and going, Quentin's eyes and his smile and his willingness to sacrifice a minute or two for the sake of kissing all give the impression of someone who's drained and a little frayed, but – healthy, overall. Someone Eliot doesn't have to worry about every minute of every day.

But just sitting across from each other eating breakfast wraps in an airport Starbucks, with nothing in particular to do but pay attention to each other – that feels new. It's funny how new that feels; they've been – together, or whatever they are – together, Eliot guesses, for a whole summer and a whole fall, and they hardly ever just  _do_ this. Coffee and food and  _what's new with you, how are you really?_

It's nice. Quentin tells him about harried freshmen enduring their first finals season gracelessly, and Eliot makes fun of him for being as much of a pushover for his students as he is for his son. Eliot tells him – not everything, it's Eliot's vacation and he doesn't want to talk about everything, but the salient details of his last few weeks: that he's seeing a therapist, that all the fucking holiday cheer is making him feel kind of shitty about his extremely shitty childhood, that he low-key promised Ted a family trip to New York sometime in the foreseeable future. Quentin listens and nods and doesn't pry when it's obvious that Eliot has said as much as he wants to say on any one topic. “I'm sorry,” he says when Eliot winds down. “I didn't really – manage the last few weeks very well, and I know that made things harder on you. I can try harder to. Be there for everybody.”

Eliot frowns. “That's not. I'm not saying-- I know you're trying. Do what you can.”

“It doesn't feel like enough,” Quentin says. Whatever that is in Latin, that's probably on Quentin's goddamn coat of arms. It's frustrating. It's heartbreaking.

“It is,” Eliot says. “You are.”

“You're sweet,” Quentin says with a reluctant smile.

He's not. He is, however, a pragmatist, and he's not stupid enough to wreck a good thing by asking for more than Quentin has to give. Quentin is enough, frustrating and exhausting and unreliable as he can be, because the alternative to Quentin isn't Magical Fantasy Quentin, it's no Quentin at all, and that's not acceptable. Not to Eliot. Not anymore.

_Things change_ , Eliot's brain is still murmuring to him – here, now, always, it never shuts up, really –  _good things end_ .

But they're not ending right now. Right now, good things are...still good. Right now, drinking a dirty chai latte under unflattering fluorescent lighting at eight in the morning in the Indianapolis airport, things are as good for Eliot as they've ever been, because.... Nothing has ever really fixed Eliot's weird, broken, lonely life, not drugs or alcohol or sex or the stage, but Quentin needs him, Quentin  _loves him_ , and that's come closer than anything else.

Oh, and also Eliot's going to get laid this week, and he's fucking  _dying for it_ . So that's also good.

In fact, as much as part of Eliot's brain is legitimately excited by touching down in New York, by the world outside the window of their Uber and the details of Quentin's meticulously planned schedule ( _if that's okay with you_ Q adds, ever the gentleman, after each additional detail –  _I thought we could_ followed by  _if that's okay with you_ ), there's another part of Eliot strenuously insisting that every second of this vacation that Quentin spends wearing clothes is a wasted opportunity and a deadly insult. When they get to the lovely Upper West Side apartment that Q secured through the magic of Airbnb, Eliot isn't even interested in the view from the living room windows or the interesting multi-level design and decorative doorless doorways. He's aware that he will be interested in these things soon, but right now Eliot has spent so many hours – days, weeks – thinking about what he wants to do to Quentin's body that if they had to do it in a goddamn atomic bunker, Eliot would find that acceptable.

“Oh, whoa, hi,” Quentin says breathlessly as Eliot handles him by the hips, pushing him against the living room wall and hiking Quentin's leg up around him. “Are you thinking--?”

“Nope,” Eliot says, and kisses him deep and dirty.

“Oh, god, El,” Quentin moans into his mouth, fingers clenching in the back of Eliot's overcoat, raising up on the ball of his one load-bearing foot, tilting and arching and stretching in a way that Eliot knows they can't sustain, but he really loves making Quentin try.

With his hand on Quentin's ass, Eliot can feel when Quentin's leg starts to tremble a little, and he slackens his arms around Quentin, letting him drop back down but not letting him go. Eliot keeps his other hand in Quentin's hair and moves his lips to Quentin's temple, the edge of his hairline. “Wait,” Quentin says, squeezing Eliot's arm. “Wait, El, I want to – I have to tell you something.”

“I think it can wait, can't it?” Eliot says.

“It – kind of can't.” That's not what Eliot expects to hear. He loosens his grip on Quentin and backs off a bit, letting his hand come to rest lightly on Quentin's shoulder. He can't keep his thumb from brushing up and down Quentin's neck, but that's just a sign of affection. Eliot's listening, he is. “Okay, so,” Quentin says, and then huffs and shakes his head self-consciously. “This is – sorry, this isn't easy. You know I've been on a higher dosage of my meds, and it's – I mean, I think it's helped with the symptoms, but it's also – I've had more side effects than I'm used to. I think it's too much, honestly, and the next time I see her I'm going to ask about trying something else, the old dosage or a different medication or something, I don't know, I just – this isn't working for me.”

Eliot frowns and shifts his hand, letting his thumb sweep soothingly over Quentin's lips. “What's wrong, sweet boy?” he asks. “You can tell me, it's okay.”

“There's a few,” he hedges, “but the major one – um, the, the relevant one right now is, there are – sexual side effects.”

Eliot takes a beat, just to make sure he says something that isn't callous or flippant or – just, the wrong thing in any way, because he knows how guys can be about this sort of thing. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Sorry, I know this isn't the most fun, but I actually need you to get into a little more detail, here. Do you mean erectile dysfunction, or is it more of – an issue with libido in general?”

“I – both?” Quentin says hesitantly. “More the first one. I've noticed – it is a little different – my, my sex drive in general, but it's not gone, I do still want-- I want to, Eliot. I just don't want you to think-- I don't know what's going to happen, and I don't want you to think it's something you have to, to  _make_ happen, you know? I've – I've tried on my own, and it hasn't really worked, and – you're you, I know, and I know we're both, or, you're probably – hoping as much as I am that it's different when it's you, but – it might not be. And I. I need that to be okay with you. If it doesn't happen.”

“Okay,” Eliot says again. He steps back, taking hold of Quentin's hand and tugging him in the direction of the large sectional couch. “Hey. Come over here and sit with me, okay? Let's talk about this.”

“I don't know what else I can say,” Quentin says, though he lets himself be drawn over to the couch with no resistance.

Eliot finally takes a second to divest both of them of their winter coats. He tosses them carelessly on top of the pile of suitcases in the middle of the floor and settles into the soft cushions of the couch, only giving Quentin enough time to toe off his sneakers before tucking Quentin up under his arm. Quentin presses a kiss to Eliot's shoulder, then looks up at him with that awful, impossible earnestness that never fails to upend Eliot's life. “You want to kiss me?” Eliot suggests gently.

Quentin nods and shuffles around awkwardly, his knees not exactly the best tools for maneuvering on the floofy cushions. He manages, however, and he puts his arms around Eliot's shoulders and leans in to kiss him with awful, impossible earnestness. Eliot strokes him – pets him, really, from shoulderblade to ass, urging him to give up his tension. It seems to help, to a degree. “I don't know what else to say,” Quentin murmurs when he's finished. “I'm sure you're – disappointed. I am, too. It's not exactly what I planned.”

Is he disappointed? “Maybe a little,” Eliot says thoughtfully. “Whatever you had planned, I'm sure it was stellar.” Quentin smiles a little at that, and Eliot feels the relief arcing back and forth between them. They can laugh about this, at least a little. This is manageable. “You need to know, sweet boy – if nothing happens at all, we'll both survive. I get that it's not what we wanted for this trip, but sometimes life's like that. If I'd gotten the flu, you wouldn't have been upset at me, right?”

“Right, but this is--”

“See, it's not, though,” Eliot says. “It's not different at all. You're having some health problems that happened to hit at an inconvenient time. It's nobody's fault, and it's not the end of the world. Now, that being said, I'm actually midly-to-moderately opposed to the scenario where nothing happens at all, because I think we can do a little better than that, don't you?”

Quentin kisses him briefly and says with surprising vehemence, “I think you can pretty much do  _anything_ .”

“Let's not get carried away. Even I have to work within the laws of physics, you know? But as long as you give me some parameters, I'm reasonably confident that I am up to this challenge. The kissing was good, right? You seemed into that.”

“Yeah, I was,” Quentin says. “I am, I want that.”

“Okay. And when you were experimenting with this yourself, was that – it still felt good, right? Or no? I have no problem playing with your cock when it's soft, but it feels too weird or it makes you nervous or self-conscious, then that's not going to work.”

Quentin blinks, and it's so obvious from his flushed cheeks and his darting eyes that he really wants to stick his head under one of these throw pillows and hide in embarrassment, but he's not going to let himself. Eliot just – adores this man, he really does. “It doesn't feel weird, it feels – good, but I think if you, if you focus too much on it, I am going to get a little – nervous? I just don't want. I'm already putting enough pressure on myself, I know, and I'm trying not to, but it would probably. It would help if you didn't, like – draw  _too_ much attention to it.”

“Yeah, fair,” Eliot says. “Great, see? This isn't so terrible, we can handle this. Let's talk about my dick now.”

It gets an even better reaction than Eliot anticipated; Quentin lets out a burst of startled laughter, then leans in and pushes his face against the crook of Eliot's neck. “Oh, yes, let's,” he says from there, warm and dry and – just so – so Quentin.

Eliot runs his fingers through Quentin's hair. “You and I both know I could keep you in bed for the next four days with nothing but your sweet mouth to keep us occupied,” he says in the slow, rolling tone that he knows always works hypnotically on Quentin, soothing and arousing him like a physical touch ghosting across his skin. “And I know you'd do it, too, you'd be so good to me, my sweet boy. But I have--” Oh, okay, this part runs the risk of being – not sexy, so he's just gonna. He's just gonna do it and move on. “I have a hard limit about consent of the very most enthusiastic variety. I know that sometimes, in some circumstances, it – makes sense, theoretically, to just. Go ahead and do things that someone else wants. I'm not saying that's always wrong. And I know that if you did that, in your mind it would be – you'd be showing me commitment, or how much you value being with me, or some other kind of – emotional – I get that you'd have the best of intentions, I do. But that's not.” Fuck, this is worse than therapy. “I'm not the right person for that. That's all I'm saying. Even with the best of intentions, that's just not. Compatible. With my stuff.”

And Quentin's not the most worldly-wise person on earth, but he's sure as fuck not stupid, so there's – if not total understanding, at least enough on his face when he turns his head to look up at Eliot and says quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Fuck, no,” Eliot says, a wild laugh threatening to punch its way up out of his throat. “This is my vacation, baby, I  _profoundly_ don't. Right now,” he tacks on awkwardly. “I mean. There might be a time and place for that, but – yeah, no.” Quentin is good at taking no for an answer, so he just kisses Eliot's neck gently and puts his head back down. Eliot tightens his arm briefly around Quentin in gratitude. “So that's my thing,” Eliot says, as close to lightly as he can. “I'm completely on-board with messing around, and with letting you try any dirty, creative thing you can come up with, but I'm probably going to check in with you a lot, just – to reassure myself that you're into it, too. And I need you to be extremely,  _excessively_ honest when I do, because – let's be real, sweetheart, you're not a good actor. And I'm going to know, and that's going to. It's going to be bad for us. For the trust that we have. I'm not threatening you, I just--”

“Eliot, I understand,” Quentin says. “I like that we've always been honest with each other. I won't do anything to fuck that up.” He lifts his hand and then hesitates just a second before he puts it on Eliot's chest, pressing and circling gently. It's heart-wrenchingly kind and intimate and Eliot thinks that – he thought for years that he'd tried everything at least once, had everything there was to be had, but now he thinks that he's never had this at all, never had any idea what it meant to be touched by someone who wants what's best for Eliot first, always. “But I think you need to – even if it's hard, you need to try – trusting me when I tell you that. That doing things for you? Making you, making you feel things, I mean, things like this? I like it. I like it  _enthusiastically_ . Ever since the very first time, you – it blows my mind, how into it you get. How – I mean – into  _me_ .”

“I'm so into you,” Eliot says, and he feels laughter and longing jostling around for space in his chest, stretching him thin like an overblown balloon. He is  _so into Quentin_ , in ways that make everything else he's ever done, everyone he thought he felt something for – well, not go away, not – cease to exist, but. It changes the context on everything, on Eliot's whole life. He didn't see all those other things for what they were, because he didn't know there was – this.

He's so fucked. He's so goddamn in love.

“So, do you wanna...” Quentin begins, hesitant but not really, hesitant in the way he gets when he wants Eliot to fucking _do_ something already. This shameless little flirt of Eliot's, honestly. Eliot can't help but grin, but he decides to call Q's bluff and wait. Quentin knows what he's doing immediately, and he huffs out a laugh, because he knows already that he's doomed to lose this game. “Fine, okay,” he says, rolling his eyes. He curls his fingers in the collar of Eliot's shirt, not pulling it tight, just making a hundred percent sure he has Eliot's attention, and he meets Eliot's eyes and says, in a light and (Eliot _thinks_ ) unconscious mimicry of Eliot's usual imperious ways, “Let's go, gorgeous, we've talked about our fucking feelings long enough. Take me to bed _right_ _now._ ”

“In the middle of the afternoon?” Eliot says, feigning shock. “My  _goodness_ , Professor Coldwater. We haven't even had lunch.”

Quentin, for some reason, takes him entirely seriously. “Are you hungry?” he says, suddenly sounding very much himself again. “We could order--”

“Yeah, not unless the delivery guys in New York are very cool about seeing some very weird things.”

“They probably have seen some pretty weird things, to be honest,” Quentin says.

“And as tempting as it is to add my dick to that list, reason suggests that we can probably skip lunch and live to tell the tale.” Quentin opens his mouth like he's going to keep brainstorming suggestions, so Eliot kisses him quickly and says, “Come on, sweet boy, aren't you going to help me work up an appetite for dinner?”

It is – different, fucking Quentin on the high-dose antidepressants, but not bad-different. Eliot likes the slow build he gets when he lets Q set the pace, lets him take his lazy, luxurious time as he unbuttons layer after layer of Eliot's outfit, and he kind of loves the decadent feeling of sprawling out on the bed naked while Quentin stands at the foot of the bed, his hands lightly braced on Eliot's thighs and his eyes everywhere at once. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” Eliot purrs, stroking his own cock once or twice. “This good?”

“Yeah, I want--” Quentin starts, putting his knee on the edge of the bed, starting to crawl forward.

Eliot bends a knee back far enough to get his foot up against Quentin's shoulder, blocking his advance. “Clothes off,” he orders. It really won't do, after all, to let Quentin think he's in charge here. “I want to see you.”

Quentin only argues so far as a self-deprecating roll of his eyes before giving in to the inevitable, stripping off cleanly in a few unshowy movements and returning to the business of climbing up over Eliot. There's a moment of awkwardness as Quentin settles on top of him, both of them mentally and physically making restless adjustments to find the most comfortable way for Eliot's hard cock and Quentin's not-hard one to share the limited space between their bodies, but then Quentin kisses him and kisses him deeper and kisses him  _deeper_ , and the awkwardness is all but forgotten. Eliot gets his hands full of Quentin's ass and hauls him in closer, tighter; someday it's going to stop coming as a surprise to Eliot every time how perfect Quentin's body is for this, dense and compact, easy for Eliot to wind his legs around, heavy enough to hold Eliot firmly in place.

But then instead of ratcheting up the way it normally does, they just – keep kissing, and instead of a runway to takeoff, it's a kind of road trip, the trees and the exits and the billboards flashing past them, flowing and blurring all around them with no way to clock the time. Eliot loses a kind of consciousness – not literally, but he loses some sense of how they got here or why or where they're supposed to be headed. He's only really aware of the scrape of teeth against his lower lip, and of Quentin's hair slipping through his fingers and brushing against his jaw, and of Quentin's tentative fingers tracing his ribs and up into his armpit, making Eliot shiver.

It's amazing, the way Quentin touches him. It's kind of ridiculous – like Eliot is fine, fragile stemware, a champagne glass that Quentin might fumble or damage.  _It's not like that_ , Eliot wants to tell him.  _You can go harder, I can handle it, handle whatever, I've always been able to--_

Able to what? Handle it, take it – endure it, ignore it, survive it? Eliot is...proud of that. Of course he is. Of course he's proud that nothing he's been through has had the power to take from him this person that he is now, the person he wanted to be. But the idea of saying the words out loud feels....

He doesn't know. He can't think. What is this, fucking therapy? He needs to clear his head.

“How are you, sweetheart?” he asks. Quentin nods to indicate his overall okayness and tries to recapture Eliot's lips, but Eliot turns his head and tilts his chin to make it just slightly impossible and says, “No, I need a little more this time. How are you? Tell me.”

“I, uh,” Quentin says, blinking as he tries to bring the world into focus around him. “I'm – good? Happy? If you, if you want more, I'm good with it. I want to – it's really sexy. Thinking about making you come. So. Whatever – sorry, not to be all – but whatever you're afraid of? That I'll just do it because I think I owe you or something, that's not. It's – not. Like that at all.” He quirks a little smile at Eliot and says, “I'm not a good actor. You can believe me.”

“I do believe you,” Eliot says. “I just thought....” Never mind. It was a stupid thought.

“Tell me,” Quentin says, but he's asking more than demanding. Maybe he's hoping, more than really asking.

Eliot gazes up at him; he's not so used to seeing Quentin from this angle, but he likes it. Or maybe he just likes Quentin's handsome face, irrespective of angles. “It makes sense to put you in control of the pace, but I wondered if – you really enjoy that as much?”

“As much as--?”

“As when I'm in control.”

He can see the flush come up under Quentin's skin, strokes his thumb over one cheek to feel the heat. “I, I mean, I,” Quentin says, awkward but still smiling. “I like this. But if you're offering....”

Eliot wasn't, entirely; he was thinking of this conversation more as reconnaissance. But now that the subject is out there in the open.... He cups the back of Quentin's skull and pulls him slowly down, kissing his face and the corner of his eye and his cute, frowny, shapeless brow line. “You've been so good,” he murmurs. “You feel so good against me, and I love kissing you.”

“Okay,” Quentin says with a breathless little chuckle. “Good? Thanks?”

“Oh, don't thank me,” Eliot purrs. “You earned it.”

“So I get a reward now, huh?” Quentin says, and he's hovering on the knife's edge between indulgent amusement and being legitimately into the idea. They've had entire sexual encounters where Quentin never really left that narrow zone of overlap, and it's a pretty adorable experience, but Eliot has more in his sights today.

“Oh, sweet boy,” Eliot says, affecting a note of slight disappointment at Quentin's slowness. He traces the tip of his finger down the side of Quentin's face and watches the interest spark and sharpen in Quentin's eyes. “That  _was_ your reward.”

“O-oh,” Quentin says. “So then – then now what?”

“Now?” Eliot says, drawing it out as long and rich and regal as he can manage. “Now I get my Christmas present, don't I? Don't I?” he adds again more deliberately, inviting Quentin to argue the point, or to rewrite the script, if that's what he wants. But Eliot also wraps his hand firmly around the back of Quentin's neck, and that typically ensures that there won't be any arguments.

The nice thing about Quentin – the current thing that's especially nice about Quentin – is that while he craves a certain degree of  _direction_ in bed, he's not interested in being micromanaged. With only a little nudge for prompting –  _okay, it's time now, go on_ – Quentin takes charge of his own destiny quite admirably, taking a firm grip with both hands around Eliot's ribs and sucking a soft, hungry kiss into the middle of Eliot's chest, then another just below it. Eliot keeps a hand on Q as he works his way down, but it's not necessary; Quentin knows what he's doing.

God, he knows what he's doing. When he wraps his fingers around Eliot's cock, it goes immediately from standing up attentively to  _hard_ , achingly hard, and Eliot tells himself that's his natural lust for life and not that he's been conditioned. But whatever, maybe it is Pavlovian; maybe his cock is just educated and discerning and knows a goddamn good thing when it's about to get sucked by one. Eliot doesn't care, it could not possibly matter less. What matters is the way Quentin laves his tongue all over the head of Eliot's cock, then pauses to breathe air heated from his open mouth across it. Eliot's not ashamed of the way he shudders like it's happening to his whole body, or of the way his hips push upward, impatient for this, for more, for all of it.

That buzz of impatience remains under Eliot's skin, even when Quentin's mouth is taking him deep, when Quentin's hand is moving deftly on him – even when Quentin's other hand kneads warmly, intimately against the crease of Eliot's groin. It should be enough – it is enough, it's everything – but Eliot still feels something low in his belly like a hunger pang, like a nicotine craving. He has everything, but he  _wants_ something; everything is insufficient, and Eliot's heart races almost in panic, terrified that he can't have this thing, this necessary thing, terrified that he'll die without it. Eliot doesn't even know what  _it_ is, but he can hear the frustration in his own moans, feel his body squirming like he's pulling against restraints and not against the familiar, delightful touch of Quentin's hands.

Eliot throws his arm across his eyes, trying to count backward from a hundred by sevens, trying to order his scattering thoughts, focus on how undeniably good this is – on how safe he is here, with Quentin--

In the darkness, he can hear the tinny voice of his own panic, bouncing around inside his head. It sounds like  _don't go_ , like  _I was so lonely before you, please don't go_ .

Well, that obviously just. Won't do.

“C'mere,” Eliot says, hoping the rasp in his voice sounds sexy and not like the verge of childish, overwhelmed tears. “Up – here, come here.”

Quentin's deep in his own spacey, thought-free zone, the one he's always chasing, so his response is a little slow and clumsy, but he crawls back up Eliot's body, taking Eliot's face in his hand and nuzzling Eliot's chin and his jaw. “Check-in?” Quentin says, his voice earnest, if a little fuzzy. “Do you... are you okay?”

What a question. Is Eliot okay.

Eliot has never been okay. He's been everything else that a person can possibly be – a victim, a liar, an artist, a hopeless romantic, a bully, an ingenue, a libertine, the hottest of hot messes – he's been barely more than set-decoration or a party favor, and he's been the most spectacular queen bee bitch in the room. He's never been just _okay_.

He doesn't know what to say. He just looks at Quentin, and he wonders – what Quentin sees, when they're not both pretending to believe that Eliot is royalty. Quentin leans over him, eyes fluttering shut, and he places one careful kiss in the center of Eliot's forehead. Eliot swears he stops breathing. He swears time stops. “Let me,” Quentin says, soft and sober and so– he's just so fucking _kind_. Eliot didn't know people _were_ kind the way that Quentin Coldwater is kind. “Let me – whatever you need, tell me. I want.... Eliot, let me.”

There's no chance Eliot can tell anyone anything in this state, but he doesn't have to. Quentin has mass and stubbornness, but he's always easy to move, because he always wants to be moved. Eliot rolls them both over to their sides, and with his arm over Quentin's chest he can feel as well as hear the sharp gasp of air Quentin takes in as Eliot nudges his spit-slick cock between Quentin's lovely, sturdy thighs. “How are you?” Eliot murmurs, using his own cheek to brush a little hair out of Quentin's face. “Still good?”

“How – how – Jesus, El.” Quentin grabs for Eliot's wrist and lifts his hand, presses his own thumbs into Eliot's palm, laps his tongue between Eliot's fingers. It shouldn't be so sexy – he's like an eager puppy, really, and that's never been Eliot's kink – except that Quentin's desperate need to put something, anything, in his mouth when he's horny is Eliot's new current-nicest-thing-about-Q. “Do it, I want it,” he begs, and Eliot puts his hand on Q's chest, rubbing down his body and wrapping around his cock, which is warmer and heavier than Eliot remembers from the few times he's touched Quentin while soft in the shower. Quentin groans and tenses his thighs, shifting so that as Eliot rocks against him, he's nudging against Quentin's taint and his balls. “Do it, _please_ , come all over me.”

Check-ins don't get more successful than that, Eliot decides. He slides his hand from Quentin's dick to his hip, pushing down and then thrusting forward so sharply that they both tilt forward, Quentin half-mashed into the pillow, gasping and clutching a stranger's copper-striped comforter in one tight fist. Eliot feels like he's fucking Quentin's whole body, like somehow every single flushed patch of skin and bead of sweat and bunch of solid muscle that Quentin has can feel the friction of Eliot's cock all at once. Eliot ducks his head, half-blind himself as several errant locks of hair drip sweat and melted product into his eye. That eye will probably liquify and leak out of its socket from the toxic fumes, but whatever, Eliot will get a sexy patch for it, he doesn't care, he's not stopping to fix his goddamn hair. He wouldn't stop for an _oncoming train_ , not when he's this close, this close....

Quentin tilts his head back, exposing the arch of his throat, and Eliot can't stop himself from pressing his palm across it, heavy and open. Quentin's whole body hitches sharply, and his top leg twitches, and Eliot can feel the vibrations under his hand when Quentin says hoarse and desperate, “Eliot, please – I'm yours, let me – I'm yours.”

And then Eliot's coming, he's fairly sure, although it's an almost indistinct sensation, tangled up with everything else – salt sweat and the taste of skin on Eliot's tongue, flexing muscle and the good ache of exertion and collision with solid bone, Eliot's nose against Quentin's shoulder. A lot is happening, but some of it, he's fairly sure, is an orgasm.

He floats afterwards, feeling his heart pound against Quentin's back, both of them useless and spent and unsure where their borders are. When Eliot has mastered time and space enough to find Quentin's neck, he turns his lips against it and gets a pleased hum in response. “That was – so weird,” Quentin says, but there's giddiness in his voice, and utter contentment. Eliot can't help but take it as a compliment, although admittedly an obscure one. Quentin's shoulderblades flex against Eliot's chest, and Quentin sighs in bliss as he realizes he's pinned down. “I've never felt anything like that without even getting hard.”

“Mmm,” Eliot says. He reaches around Quentin, slipping his fingers between Quentin's thighs from the front and feeling his own stickiness there. “Fascinating.”

Eliot is a little disappointed that this place doesn't have a bathtub – he's not sure both of them would fit in a bathtub without a level of discomfort that would cancel out the benefits of a soak, but he would've liked to try. It does have a shower that's a weird cubicle of rippled glass out in the center of the bathroom, which seems arty verging on pretentious until Eliot figures out how to work the spray, which comes directly from above them and can be adjusted from a regular strong spray to something more like standing in steamy, warm rain. Fuck, if they had something like this at home, they'd probably never get out of it.

He takes his time getting Quentin cleaned up, then dried off and bundled into sweatpants and a hoodie and nubbly, warm socks, and then he does his best to wipe up the bedspread and unpack their least wrinkle-resistant items of clothing while Quentin lounges on the couch and shouts options for delivery at him from the other room. Eliot doesn't have strong opinions, although he is generically hungry; mostly he's content to listen to Quentin nattering on about New York pizza, and the article he read about something in the chemical treatment of New York water contributing to its universally recognized superiority of crusts.

Of course Eliot's boyfriend knows things about the chemistry of pizza crust. Hopeless, _lovely_ nerd.

Eliot comes to sit on the floor by the couch while Quentin places their order online, and he waits patiently until Quentin is done with that before playfully twisting the drawstring on Quentin's sweatpants around his finger and tugging on it. Quentin hums his appreciation, but he says, “Come on, you can't be serious. Aren't you exhausted?”

“I'm not serious,” Eliot assures him. “And I am the other thing, yes. Post-coital check-in?”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but his gaze settles on Eliot's face with an odd, serious tenderness. “You want to know how I am? How I really am?”

Does he? He – feels almost certain that he does. He nods.

Quentin reaches out and strokes Eliot's hair, twice as curly when it's damp like this. “I kind of hate my body,” he says. It's not what Eliot would have guessed, if he'd been guessing. “I don't mean, like – I wish I was taller or more jacked or had a nicer ass. I mean just – having a body. I never liked it. All the – cleaning and sleeping and drinking enough water, and shaving, and headaches, and occasional weird smells, and you have to decide every _day_ what to put on it and in it, and when I forget to eat it changes my personality, what's that, how is that fair? And I'm allergic to fire ants, I got bitten once on vacation as a kid and I went into anaphylactic shock, I almost _died of ants_. It's fucked up, right? And yes, ice cream and orgasms and the smell of the ocean after a storm, I get it, there are good parts. There are. It just – it keeps you here, when you don't want to be here, you know? When you know you – you don't belong here, and you can only read– You can only escape for so long, before your body pulls you back.” Eliot's not sure how to respond to any of that, so he takes hold of Quentin's hand and pulls it down, kissing the inside of his wrist gently. Quentin smiles at him. “It's felt like an ordeal for so long – being alive in the world. All my life, it felt like that. And then I met you.”

“Mm,” Eliot says. “This is always my favorite part of any story, where I come in.”

Quentin taps Eliot's cheek playfully, and then somehow they wind up both resting an elbow on the floofy cushions, palm held against palm. “You never had any idea,” Quentin says dreamily. “I was – there, standing in this stupid house in fucking Indiana, tired and – so angry at myself, because I fucked things up with Alice, and I had Yale and I threw it away for this, this thing that I knew I wasn't even going to get, and even if I did get, I'd fuck it up, too. I was supposed to be starting over, and nothing felt new or different, just the same pissed-off loop of boring crap in my head, about how I hated myself, about how there was nothing to look forward to. And then – you walked in. The two of you, my – movie-star gorgeous new neighbors, and _you_ – the way you looked me over, like you were just debating which position you were going to fuck me in first. Like you couldn't see the awkward parts of the anxious parts or how I was a freak or a mental patient or a fuck-up. Like all you could see was – I don't know. I don't know what you saw. Something you liked, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Eliot agrees, tender and amused and – can you be nostalgic for six months ago? Too soon?

“I don't usually get that kind of attention – flirted with by sexy strangers.” Eliot has seen Quentin interact with the world for months now, and that's actually not at all true, but he believes that Quentin believes it. “It was – the newest, most different thing that had happened to me since, since I could remember. And I remember just thinking – I could do this, you know? I could do what a normal, sane person would do – flirt back, hook up with this cute guy, be – happy. Enjoy something without overthinking it, for once.”

Yeah, Eliot remembers when he thought hooking up with Quentin would be chill and uncomplicated, too. Life's full of surprises. “Did you plan all this out before or after you figured out that Margo and I weren't a couple?”

“Well,” Quentin says, a slight smile playing around the corner of his mouth. “She wasn't _my_ girlfriend. Anyway, it was – mostly just a thought. I knew I didn't have the balls to come onto you, and I figured... I didn't really think you could be serious enough to come back and actually try. That's not something that happens in real life – not my real life, at least.”

“And yet,” Eliot says.

“And yet,” Quentin agrees. “I don't know if you remember, but that first, the first time we slept together – you called me beautiful.” Eliot doesn't remember, specifically, but it sounds like something he would say. “I never even – thought that was an option. I barely wanted to exist – as far as most of the world was concerned, I barely _did_ exist – and I definitely never thought – you know, that someone would think of me as _beautiful_. So you want to know how I feel, Eliot? I feel like – when I look in the mirror now, I see something you like, something you want, and before you I only saw a burden and an obligation. I want to get the meds straightened out, I want to get everything working again, but. But if I never did, you would still make me feel better than anything in my whole goddamn life ever has, just. By the way that you look at me.”

Eliot slots his fingers through Quentin's. Their hands curl as their fingers flex, creating a dark, hollow cup hidden in the warmth between them. Eliot imagines a tiny world existing there, known only to the two of them. “I like looking at you,” Eliot says. “I will look at you for as long as you let me.” Quentin chuckles softly, as though Eliot is being flippant.

He's not.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy, so -- RIP my outline! This is getting a little, uh, longer than I anticipated because I somehow, I dunno, imagined that an entire four-day trip to New York would also fit in this chapter? And that's Too Much. I see that now. So I'm splitting that off and rolling it into the next chapter, which was supposed to be More Margo (remember Margo? Whatever happened to her?) and also Christmas and some Sad Eliot Backstory. SO -- chapter 10 is now New York + More Margo + Christmas, with bonus Sad Eliot Backstory, and then...more than two chapters after that. I don't know, I'll have to sit down and figure it out.
> 
> Anyway, I know it's been ages since I updated -- thank you for your patience and your kind comments and your patience with my badness at responding to comments, this story is thirty-three percent more grueling than I imagined it would be when I started it. It's my first coffeeshop AU -- I'm bad at them! (I know there's no coffeeshop, but it is kind of, isn't it?) But, yeah, thank you, thank you, this fandom is the eighth wonder of the world, I love it.
> 
> Clues to the future of this story and my general mental well-being happen frequently on tumblr, where I'm @spiders-hth-is-an-outlier so you should be there, I post kittens and shit, everyone loves that.


	10. Chapter 10

Sunday is a slow and easy day; they wake up and kiss and go for a walk like little old men, pre-gaming brunch by getting coffee and splitting a bagel. Eliot tries to lounge coolly by a newsstand while Quentin darts in and out of a little hole in the wall of a bagel place. Can everyone tell that Eliot's a tourist? He feels like they can, like he's staring around too much, like nobody but him is actually reading street signs and turning to look when a car honks. Eliot knows he looks good, but he's convinced that his body language is radiating Country Mouse in ways that the right coat and scarf can't camouflage.

He feels eighteen again, brand new in all the good ways and the other ones, too.

They eat brunch in Harlem and then take the train all the way up to what feels like outside of the city, even though they're still on the island – to the Met Cloisters, which Eliot had some vague awareness of, although he expected it to be more urban and less quaint. “I used to come up here for the peace and quiet,” Quentin tells him, holding his hand while they stand in a short line for tickets into the museum complex. “If you squint, it can feel a little bit....”

“Fillorian?” Eliot guesses.

Quentin huffs and looks down, smiling at the ground while he tucks his hair back into its elastic. “I know,” he says. “Don't make fun.”

“It's cute,” Eliot says. He means it. Other college students who have trouble coping with reality try to poison themselves into unconsciousness. Quentin sat in replica medieval gardens and pretended he was king of the talking beavers.

Where's Eliot ever going to meet another man like this? Are there any others? Best not to take chances. Best to keep the one he's got.

“Why are you smiling at me like that?” Quentin asks.

“Because you're my unicorn,” Eliot says.

“You're such a dick,” Quentin laughs.

They kick around most of the afternoon in the gardens and the tapestries and the brand-new special collection of early 20th century fashion, which is actually fucking amazing, and Eliot buys a souvenir booklet of photos for Harriet. Never hurts to suck up to the new boss, right? He also buys a little cloisonne pin of the unicorn from the famous tapestry; he has vague plans for it to wind up in Margo's Christmas stocking, but on a whim he breaks it off of its cardboard backing and pins it to the front of Q's coat. Quentin raises an eyebrow as Eliot does it, sitting in the museum cafe eating salads for early dinner. “Uh, thank you?” Quentin says. “I didn't know you were such a fan.”

“Of yours?” Eliot says. “Gosh, I was sure I mentioned it.”

“Of unicorns.”

“It's a metaphor, sweet boy,” Eliot says. “Because you're my hot bi babe. You know, people say those are so hard to find, but I don't know. I keep two on hand at all times, one for everyday use and one for special occasions.”

Quentin smiles tranquilly as he spears the cucumber slices off the top of Eliot's salad and transfers them to his own. “And which one am I, again?”

“No comment,” Eliot says.

There's a ton of parkland surrounding the museum, and they spend the later part of the afternoon walking through the woods, which wasn't exactly what Eliot imagined his Manhattan vacation would be like, but it's impossible to object when there's such soft, unfamiliar ease on Quentin's face as they crunch along the leafy walking trails. And it is pretty out here, and not as cold as it probably should be in the middle of December, so thanks, catastrophic climate change.

When they come to a spot overlooking the Hudson, Quentin leans on the guardrail and stretches out a little over the edge. “That's the Palisades,” he tells Eliot, motioning to the wooded cliff face on the other side of the river. “Wave to New Jersey.” Quentin waves to demonstrate the concept.

Eliot follows suit. “Nice view,” he allows.

But when he glances back over, the shadows have fallen unexpectedly. Quentin steps away from the rail and tucks his hands up inside the sleeves of his coat, frowning at the middle distance. “I don't have anything planned for dinner,” he says.

“That's fine,” Eliot says. “There's leftover pizza at the apartment. And there must be somewhere around there if we want to get a drink or something after that. Or stay in. Or – whatever, it really doesn't matter that much.”

“I emailed my mother,” Quentin says. “I – told her we'd be in town this week, and – you know, that Sunday would be a good night if she and her girlfriend wanted to meet us for dinner. Meet you.”

“Your mother has a girlfriend?” Eliot senses that probably isn't the salient point of this story, but.

“Yeah, I told you that,” Quentin says, sounding slightly annoyed.

“I mean – you didn't. Not that you had to tell me, but. I would remember if you did tell me. So we're talking about a girlfriend-girlfriend? Your mother is bi, too?”

Quentin tightens in on himself slightly and shrugs. “I guess I really don't know. She was with my dad a long time, and then she left him, and now she's been with Molly for a couple of years. I don't know if she's bi, or like – finding herself, or what. We haven't discussed it.”

Eliot thinks if it were his mother, he'd have asked a couple of questions. But then, he's just guessing, isn't he? What he'd want to talk about with his theoretical mother. “I guess dinner fell through?” he says. Is that the best phrasing? He wants to say it – neutrally. He doesn't want to assume anything.

“Yeah, I guess it fell through,” Quentin says. There's a bitter note in his voice, but only a note. Mostly he sounds flat. “She reminded me that she doesn't like coming into the city, and she invited us up to her house, if we wanted to come.”

Well, that – is not as bad as Eliot kind of thought it would be? That's – nice. It seems nice to him. “Did you not want to?” he says.

Quentin makes an odd sound, something between a sigh and a growl. “I don't know!” he says. “I don't know, am I being unreasonable? I told her – you know, we were doing so much traveling anyway, and – I mean, it would've eaten up a big part of the day – and I realize the trip down here eats up a big part of her day, but-- I don't know. I just. I haven't seen her in two years, and. I guess I thought she'd be at least a little bit excited? But she was all – _oh, that's nice, well, I don't like to put myself out, but if you do all the work...._ It just. It pissed me off, and I told her we couldn't come, and that's. That was the end of that email chain. Should I have...? I'm not being petty, right? She could've. I mean. It's one day of the most minor effort possible, and I never ask-- I never ask her for anything.”

“It's bullshit,” Eliot agrees quietly. “You're right. It is.”

“She doesn't like coming into the fucking city?” Quentin bursts out, his anger rocking back and forth on the uneasy wobble in his voice. “What the fuck, you know? She didn't even come when-- She sent a _card_.” Eliot puts his arm around Quentin and draws him protectively close to his side, even though there's no protecting him from this. Quentin leans into him. “I know she's not. The warmest person. That's fine, she doesn't – I never expected her to be some kind of gold-star super-mommy type who spends all her time knitting me sweaters and whatever.”

“Hey, you know who else isn't a gold-star super-mommy?” Eliot says. “That'd be, uh, _me_. But I'd fucking get on a train if my kid were in the hospital, you know? It's not asking too much. It's fucked up that she's got you even – worrying about asking too much.”

Quentin turns his face against the wool of Eliot's coat and lets out a short creak of a laugh. “Jesus Christ. You would never-- You and Margo, you'd both-- You would _never_. You just wouldn't.”

“And neither would you,” Eliot reminds him. “Because we're better than she is. We're too goddamn good for her, okay, baby? She doesn't get to have leftover pizza and Mai Tais with us tonight, and she doesn't even have any idea how much she's missing.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, not entirely like he believes it, but. You have to start somewhere, right?

So Eliot's first and second dinners in New York are delivery pizza, and he's actually okay with that, and he's even more okay with the fact that on the way to the fridge for the leftovers, he ends up hijacked on the couch, making out with Q in the dark. “I'm sorry,” Quentin murmurs into his mouth. “I know I didn't take you anywhere fun today--”

“I had fun,” Eliot protests. “I like seeing you in your element. You don't think I have to be drunk to have fun, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Quentin says. “Was that my element?”

“Yes, you're an adorable little wood nymph,” Eliot assures him. “I'm kidding, but. You looked happy. I like it when you look happy, ergo.”

Quentin kisses him again. “Tomorrow will be a little more intense. I just wanted – I guess to recharge for a day.”

“It's your vacation, too,” Eliot says. “Don't apologize for doing something you enjoy for one day.”

“I also enjoy sucking your cock,” Quentin murmurs. “Have I mentioned that recently?”

“Recent-ish,” Eliot says, shifting his leg off the edge of the couch so Quentin's hand has room to cup Eliot's dick and rub it through his pants. “Although. Feel free to elaborate.”

“So, weird question,” Quentin says. “I have, um, a favor to ask you? And it's not – I don't want to be creepy about it, so – what's less creepy, if I ask you now, or after the blowjob?”

Like many of the philosophical questions that occupy Quentin's mind, it's not something Eliot has given much thought to. “I'm going to want to say yes after I've just had your mouth on me,” Eliot says. “So if you want my unbiased reaction, maybe now is good. How creepy are we talking?”

Creepy enough that Quentin decides to sit up and move to the end of the couch. Eliot doesn't fight it, just puts his crossed ankles over Quentin's lap and waits. “So, tomorrow's a big day,” Quentin says in the same bright but soothing tone that all of them use when trying to sell Ted on something he probably won't want to do. Bad sign. “We'll be hanging out with Julia all day, and I can't wait for you two to meet each other, you're really going to like her. And then we'll meet James for dinner--”

“This is your old roommate,” Eliot clarifies. “The lax bro.”

“I mean – I wouldn't call – he did play lacrosse, but that feels a little judgy, when you say it like that. James is great, he's a good friend.”

“No judgment,” Eliot says. “He played lacrosse in the Ivy League. This is all I'm saying.”

“Okay, I hear what you're saying,” Quentin says wryly. “And you're – not completely wrong. James has been a good friend to me for a long time, and he loves Julia a lot, but he's not, um. The most – self-reflective person in the universe? He's kind of a bro, I admit. But you have to be nice to him anyway.”

“I assume that's not your favor,” Eliot says.

Quentin rubs his palm in circles over Eliot's knee. “No. The favor is – I want James's roommate to come to dinner with us, too, because – it's kind of awkward if we don't invite – um, we were all friends, the four of us, you know? And it just feels. Really wrong to exclude – I don't know, it just feels wrong.”

There's clearly crucial information here that has not come through in translation. “I mean, these are your friends,” Eliot says. “I assumed you were going to invite whoever you want to see.”

“Alice,” he says abruptly. “It's – Alice. And I know you can be a little, um, insecure? Or, or, I know that's not, you're not insecure, I just meant, um.”

“Oh, no,” Eliot says. “By all means, keep digging.”

“Eliot. Come on, you know what I mean. I won't put you in a position where you can't – enjoy yourself at all, but. It doesn't have to be like that, does it? It's just one dinner. I won't make you, I just. Would really like you to consider it.”

Like Eliot's not going to give in. Of course he will. Still, he pushes his toe into Quentin's thigh and says, “Can I give you my definitive answer after this blowjob I've been hearing about?”

Even in nothing more than the ambient city light from outside the big windows, Eliot can see the shape of Quentin's smile. “Are you making it creepy?”

“I'm certainly trying,” Eliot says. “Come on, sweet boy, I know you know how to curry favor with your king.”

“There's something really wrong with you,” Quentin says, but he's already sliding to the floor on his knees, so Eliot can't take him too seriously.

All levity aside, it isn't Eliot's general practice to make his partners do all the work in bed – not for altruistic reasons, particularly, it just doesn't do to let men think _they're_ the ones making _Eliot_ come and not the other way around. It tends, in Eliot's experience, to make them arrogant. That's not a concern he has when it come to Quentin, but a _little_ bit of arrogance? It looks good on Eliot's sweet boy. Eliot spreads his legs just enough for Quentin to find room for himself, and then he taps out entirely, leaning back on the couch and letting Quentin unbuckle and unzip him, letting Quentin do whatever he wants at his own pace.

More or less at his own pace. It's an impossible temptation, having Quentin's hair right there by his fingers, and Eliot is not a disciplined man; he can't resist the urge to wrap his hands up and cradle Quentin's head tightly. Quentin's tongue stops moving for a moment. Eliot takes hold of Q's hand and curls it into a fist, pressing it gently against the outside of Eliot's thigh. “Tap twice and I'll let you go,” Eliot tells him, his voice already sinking into a hazy, blissed-out murmur. “Try it now, show me.” Quentin knocks twice on Eliot's knee, light and distinct. “Good, perfect,” Eliot says, rubbing his fingertips against Quentin's scalp, feeling the crunch of his hair and the shiver under his skin.

For the first time in weeks, Eliot finds himself wishing for a cigarette, or maybe a manly glass of Scotch or something. He's in a tasteful Manhattan apartment with a view, gazing down at the soft chestnut hair of a wholly eager partner who moves on Eliot's cock with the expertise of someone whose cocksucking experience overlaps literally 100% with what Eliot enjoys. He has nowhere in particular to be, at least not tonight, and no one depends on him for anything – at least not tonight. He rocks against Q just a little, pressing the head of his cock against the roof of Quentin's mouth, and he can hear the rough edge to Quentin's breathing as he tries to swallow, and yeah, the only thing Eliot can think of that would improve this scenario is filling his own mouth with something toxic and delicious. He could hold Quentin's head just as easily with one hand as with two, after all; just picturing it sends a jolt of power and confidence and hunger through Eliot, because if one luxury good for Eliot's consumption is good, two at a time would be better, right?

It's a bit of a bonus that Eliot also happens to be dead fucking gone on this one particular luxury, like, as a person. He knows himself well enough to know he'd be getting off on this no matter who was providing the service, but it's Quentin, and that's one hell of a cherry on top.

Quentin's hand shifts, and for a quick second Eliot's heart jumps anxiously, thinking Quentin might be, he might need-- But he's not tapping out, not at all. He's only shifting higher on his knees, trying to get a cleaner angle, trying to take Eliot deeper. His palm flattens out and slides up Eliot's leg, grasping at Eliot's hip for balance, and Eliot picks up where he got distracted and left off earlier, massaging Quentin's scalp.

He's dirty and pretty and he _wants_ Eliot and he _loves_ Eliot, and he's going to be in Eliot's life forever, somehow. Maybe like this. Maybe not. But somehow.

Maybe like this.

“Are you mine, sweet boy?” Eliot says into the soft darkness of some rich stranger's apartment. “All for me?” Quentin sucks harder, through the muffled but unmistakable sound of a moan, and Eliot can feel the tightening coil of instinct in his thighs and his ass, urging him to fuck up into this hot, perfect space until he comes. “Fuck,” Eliot breathes, tilting his head back and using up every brain cell he has to remember how not to ruin a perfectly good experience by gagging his boyfriend. “Come on, come on,” he bites out, pulling sharply on Quentin's hair and fighting the trembling that's encroaching on his whole body, the leading edge of his oncoming orgasm.

Quentin works him through the whole thing with fingers and tongue and lips. When Eliot's hand finally goes thoroughly slack with dizzy relief, Quentin uses the opportunity to sit back on his heels and turns his face against the inside of Eliot's knee, wiping spit and come off his face and onto the leg of Eliot's pants. Idly, Eliot thinks about teasing Quentin with the fact that those pants he's making a mess of retail for about five hundred dollars, but that feels like a lot of work, and anyway Eliot didn't pay anywhere near that, so whatever. He just keeps petting Quentin while he catches his breath.

After taking a moment leaned against Eliot's knee, probably to catch his breath too, Quentin presses a little kiss there and kneels up, his forearms resting on Eliot's thighs. Eliot lets his hand stroke from Quentin's hair down the side of his face, brushing Q's wet lips with the pad of his thumb. “Check-in?” Eliot says.

“God. Um. I – um, good? Good. You can – do it more, next time. If you want.”

Usually Eliot is pretty quick to translate Quentin's fragmentary thoughts into sentences, but he's not confident this time. “Do what more?”

There's one beat of silence, and then Quentin says, “Pull, pull me – I mean – fuck my. Yeah.

My mouth. You can – harder. Next time. If you want.”

“If I want,” Eliot repeats, just to savor the words. “Okay. Noted.”

Eliot uses the bathroom and cleans up a bit while Quentin gets the oven started to reheat the pizza. There was some talk of going back out for drinks tonight, but Eliot makes the executive decision not to bring that up again; Quentin has been visibly worn out all day, and he obviously has a lot on his mind about tomorrow, so on the basis of his zero experience in healthcare and his six months of experience at Quentin, Eliot prescribes an early bedtime and an aggressive course of cuddling.

That means Eliot can go ahead and change into sleep pants and a robe, and while he's rummaging through their pile of bags in the bedroom – he's not snooping, he just happens to see it, lying right on top of Quentin's things. Eliot's old cigarette case, the one he gave Quentin ages ago when he (more or less) quit smoking. He's _not_ snooping, it's just such an odd thing for Q to travel with that Eliot picks it up out of unconsidered curiosity, and he only opens it because the rattling noise it makes is so unexpected. It's full of pills – Quentin's prescription – and something about it hurts Eliot's heart in a complicated, aching way. Every time Quentin takes a pill, he holds this in his hands – the first thing Eliot gave him, complete with Eliot's initials on the lid.

Eliot got this as a gift from someone who didn't give a fuck about him, and he used to keep it full of the thing that was statistically most likely to kill him eventually. Now it belongs to – someone Eliot would do fucking anything to protect from harm. It's a nice arc, actually. It should make Eliot happy – does make him happy, to a degree. He doesn't know why it makes him so goddamn sad at the same time.

He's twenty-seven years old. Quentin is twenty-five. Maybe it's just sad because – neither one of them should've had to spend this much of their brief lives speculating on the exact nature and circumstances of their eventual deaths.

_Maybe I want to grow old_ , he told Margo, back when he was falling in love and hadn't realized it yet. _Maybe I want us all to_.

Eliot's mother was thirty years old when she died on black ice, driving between the babysitter's house and her monthly bridge game at a friend's. She was young. She died young. Eliot doesn't know why he feels so old sometimes, so burned out and jaded.

He doesn't remember how old he was, the first time he wished he were dead. Young. Really young. He wonders if Quentin remembers his first time.

Eliot shakes himself off. Nobody's dying. Everybody's getting old – taking the good drugs and giving up the bad ones, eating their vegetables and going to therapy and making promises and making plans. They're doing everything right.

They're doing everything right. They're going to be okay. Eliot puts the case of pills back where he found it and goes back out to the kitchen, where Quentin has dug up a cookie sheet and lined up the other half of last night's pizza along it, the slices alternating directions to make them all fit.

Eliot puts his hand on Quentin's back and leans down to kiss him, but Quentin dodges out of his way with a shake of his head. “Let me brush my teeth first,” he says.

“Just a little one,” Eliot says.

“Ten seconds,” Quentin says. “You can wait ten seconds.”

“You can't brush your teeth in ten--”

“You realize the longer we argue about this, the longer--”

“Oh, for god's sake, go,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes as he pushes Quentin away by the shoulder. Quentin just grins at him before he trots off, eminently undisturbed by Eliot's pouting.

Eliot loves him. That's something he should – say? Out loud, as is the tradition between serious boyfriends? And there's nothing really to be scared of, because he won't even be the first to bring it up.

Impeccable logic. And they're in one of the world's most storied and romantic cities, far from jobs and school and kid and therapy, and – what better time, honestly?

Well, it's an _option_ , at least. Eliot's leaving it on the table.

“ _Can't promise you fair sky above_ ,” he sings idly, half under his breath, as he puts the pizza in the oven and starts poking around the cabinets for plates and whatnot. “ _Can't promise you kind road below – just walk with me, my love, any way the wind blows._ ”

“That's pretty,” Quentin says, padding back into the kitchen with bare feet and, presumably, fresh breath. “I don't know that song.”

“Well, you will after Tuesday,” Eliot says.

“Oh, is it from the show thing?” Quentin's complete lack of shame over his cultural deficiencies shouldn't be so fucking cute. “Cool.”

He slides an arm around Eliot's waist and looks up at him expectantly. Eliot kisses him, but he must be catching some horrible brain virus from Quentin, because he kind of – can't stop overthinking. When he pulls away, Eliot says, “If you're – still sure you want to go. On Tuesday.”

Quentin jerks back slightly, probably just to make it slightly easier to look up at Eliot's face, but the effect is a little bit like he's been shoved backwards. “I – of course we're going. Why wouldn't we go?”

“I don't know,” Eliot says, for no apparent reason, since that is a flat fucking lie. “I mean. You know it's – Orpheus and Eurydice, right?”

“Yeah, I know how to use Wikipedia,” Quentin says. He takes one more step away, so that Eliot has to chase him or let go. He lets go. “What the hell, Eliot? The show is your Christmas present, it's why we're _here_ , do you think I would just – do you, are you worried it's going to – what, trigger me or something?”

“See, you seem a little pissed off,” Eliot says hesitantly, “so I'm not sure how I'm allowed to respond, here.”

“Yeah, I'm pissed off! Come on, Eliot, I read books, I go to the movies, I resemble a functioning person most of the time. I'm not going to have a meltdown over the concept of death.”

“Okay, Jesus,” Eliot says. “You get – you get sad sometimes, fuck me for thinking a fully certified Greek goddamn tragedy might alter your mood or whatever. I'm just trying to look out for you, but fuck me for that, too, I guess.”

“Yeah, fuck you for that, too,” Quentin spits. “I'm not your fucking six-year-old and I don't need you to filter my media consumption for my protection.”

Eliot's goddamn head is spinning. Weren't they – like, _fifteen minutes ago_ , weren't they happy? And now this, out of nowhere? Eliot turns away and starts pulling open drawers. They're going to need an oven mitt soon. There must be one here. “I don't want to fight with you,” he says.

For a minute, Quentin doesn't answer. It gives Eliot time to find the oven mitt before the timer goes off. “I don't want to fight, either,” Quentin says softly as Eliot opens the oven. “I'm sorry, El, that was – I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.”

“Fine, I forgive you,” Eliot says, and it comes out a little curt, but he doesn't not mean it. Entirely.

By way of a peace offering, Quentin checks the fridge and comes up with two bottles of Fat Tire. Eliot's not sure how Airbnb works – is this like a hotel minibar, do they just get forty dollars tacked on their bill for taking the drinks? – but he's willing to take the risk. He's even willing to drink this barely drinkable beer, that's how badly he wants alcohol right now. He drinks almost a third of the bottle before he's even done plating up the pizza.

They don't speak again until they sit down at the table. “I'm sorry,” Quentin says again, his voice hoarse as he pokes the food with his fork. “This is – that's why I usually try not to be, um, to be around people that much when I get like this. I get really – frustrated and – reactive. And I say things I don't mean.”

“Do you?” Eliot says. “Or do you just say things you didn't intend to ever say?”

Quentin shrugs. “Both, I guess. Either. Depending. I know you're, you're trying to take care of me, El. God, you take, you take care of everybody, all the time, and I love you for it. I just. Sometimes it – sucks so bad, knowing that the people I care about most are just sitting around waiting to see how long it takes before I – let them down.”

“I wasn't,” Eliot says. “I'm not.”

“No, I mean – not in a cruel way, but – you are. I did this – I'm here for _you_ , I know how much you always wanted – and don't say you wouldn't have minded, because if I'd, if we didn't get to go, you would've acted like it was fine, but. Don't try to pretend it's not a big deal, it would be a big deal. And you have to do that calculus in your head, like, all the time. Is this something you can't have because, because Quentin's too fragile right now, because it's too risky, maybe he'll break? Is this something you can't. Even ask me for, because you can't trust that even if I say yes, I'll – really come through. I know I don't come through sometimes. Too many times. I know, and you know, and – everyone I love knows, and. It's just the worst fucking feeling, which, I realize that right there again, I made it all about my feelings, which is how this always seems to go, right? This is what living with me is like, and – how can you fucking stand it, El? _I_ can barely stand it.”

And because Eliot is just not wired for this much sincere fucking emotion all at one time, he just says, “I don't know. You give good head?”

Quentin looks at him blankly for a second, then carefully sets down his fork, leans back in his chair and drags his hands over his face and starts to laugh. “I _fucking must_ ,” he finally says. “Sorry about how it comes with, you know. My personality.”

“I forgive you,” Eliot says. This time he means it for real.

It's as much of a resting balance as they're going to get, at least at this particular moment, and so they just rest in it, making minimal small talk while they eat, mostly Quentin walking him through a quick review of the biographical details of the people Eliot is supposed to meet tomorrow. Julia: perfect, a living goddess. James: loveable golden retriever, marrying Julia in the summer. Alice: chose Yale, didn't move to Indiana, got all Q's friends in their Very Super Mutual No-Fault Breakup. Check, check, and check. Color Eliot prepared.

After dinner they get more beer (why not) and settle on the couch with Quentin's laptop, tucked close together so they both fit in the frame of the camera while they Skype home. Eliot is slightly – but only slightly – surprised that Margo and Ted are both wearing elaborate crowns made of holly. Ted holds his hands in front of the camera, itty bitty bandages around half his fingertips, and says joyfully, “I got hurt doing crime!”

“Of course you did,” Eliot says. What did he try to tell Q? Totally feral. “Like a federal crime, or more of a municipal statute kind of thing?”

“Oh, it was _barely_ trespassing,” Margo says airily. “He just had to get a tiny ways under the fence to get to the holly bush. Do we not look fabulous?”

“You do,” Eliot says. They do; they must have come in from outdoors very recently, both of them pinkish and windswept, greenery askew on their heads and eyes bright and lively. He misses them all of a sudden – it's been less than two days, and missing them has physical force, it has both mass and acceleration. “And that's all that matters.”

They all chat for a while, about the trip, about their day, about Ted being in charge of Fester's food, about the joys of eggnog. Quentin is the least chatty of the four of them, but he leans snugly into Eliot's side and listens and laughs, and Eliot feels – an indiscriminately defiant surge of protectiveness for all of them, for this family that he never went looking for and isn't always sure what to do with. He still doesn't know what he's doing more than half the time, but still. But still.

After they sign off, Quentin stays right where he is, sliding his hand over Eliot's chest and nesting down more securely under Eliot's arm. Eliot kisses the top of his head. “I'm sorry,” Quentin says, the words half-muffled against Eliot's shirt. “I can't believe how I talked to you, that was so. I don't know, it just caught me off guard, but that's no excuse to lash out.”

“I was a little patronizing,” Eliot allows. “I need to let you be the one who tells me what you can and can't handle, not second-guess you, I get that. You're an adult.”

“Thank you,” Quentin says with a little chuckle buried under the words. “Maybe I need to hear that sometimes, just to, uh, to counterbalance that thing where you call me a boy every third sentence.”

Eliot feels something weird in this throat, something that wants to snatch this back and snarl at anyone who would take it away from him. He pauses on that and collects himself before he says, “You know that's – affectionate, right? It's not because I think....”

“I know it's affectionate,” Quentin says. “But I just. I do think. El, I don't kid myself, I know you've lived a lot more than I have – not in years, but in like, life. And I am – sheltered, in some ways, and I am fragile in other ways. It's affectionate, but it's also – there's a controlling element, too. I think you say it sometimes to kind of, make completely sure I know my place.”

“Jesus,” Eliot says. “No, that's not, I _don't_.” The weird thing in his throat is expanding now, filling his mouth up like blood. He feels like he's been shot. His _place_?

But Quentin seems so – not fucked-up about it, not even annoyed. He sighs a little like he wishes words weren't such hard work, and then patiently says, “The thing is, I don't even want your job, and I wouldn't be good at it if I did want it. You are – Eliot, you're – stubborn and _strong_ and, yeah, kind of a control freak, and you're – the only reason any of this works, you know? I'm barely holding myself together most days, Margo is an entity purely made of id, and Ted is six years old. If you didn't, like – take charge of stuff, none of this would even be possible, no part of our lives would function. We're all your little ducklings getting herded through life, and I'm _not complaining_ about it. I'm lucky to have someone like you and I know it. Hell, I don't think it's a big secret that it's part of what turns me on so much about you, too. I just. I know I'm in no condition to really be your partner, but I worry less about being a burden when I hear you say that I'm – more than just, like. A pet name to you.”

So maybe the thing that Eliot did wrong, is he – left some things on the table a little too long. He should've said – or failing that, he should say right now – he should say to this person who's as valuable to Eliot as anything on the planet ever has been, he should just say, out loud that--

God, he hates how fucking cowardly he is about this, like a dog that's been kicked into submission. Eliot is better than that, right? Than an animal? But he has all these soft, animal parts that just want to curl in on themselves and whine in his ear about how every time he's tried to give away love, even just a little piece of love, not even his whole heart necessarily, he's gotten back something – something less-than. Something smaller or sharper or meaner or more selfish than the way Eliot felt, than – what he's always felt like he had inside him to give someone, if they'd let him.

“You're...” he starts hesitantly, reaching for Quentin's hand. “You're more. To me. If I ever made you feel less....”

Goddammit.

Eliot has always wanted to be better than the world he was born into, better than the world around him wanted to make him. Sometimes he's even...really believed that he was. Before he stood outside his body and watched himself fail this same fucking test over and over again.

But Quentin just accepts his hand and smiles, weary but genuine. “You make me feel good,” he promises, like Eliot is the one who needs reassuring. Like Eliot's the one who doesn't know how much he's worth. “Eliot, I was just – thinking out loud. I don't want you to change. This is how you are, this is who I love. You. And I would be – whatever you need, if I could, if it meant being with you. I know I let people down – I'll let you down, I'll make you forgive me over and over again, I don't know how to stop. But when I can, anytime I can, I'll – do what I can. To be half the man you deserve.”

“Even tolerate my stupid pet names?” Eliot says, a light feint in the general direction of humor.

And Quentin, his darling sweet big-hearted Quentin, laughs like it's actually funny and says, “I love your stupid pet names.”

He hears quite a few of them that night, curled up in Eliot's arms, Eliot's lips moving carefully against the bolt of Quentin's jaw while his hand strokes over Quentin's chest.

Twice, he almost hears _I love you_ , but Eliot backs away from the cliff's edge both times.

Eliot's not the strong one. He's just determined, and an above-average actor. It's weird that Quentin, as bright and observant as he is, still hasn't realized that. Sooner or later, he will.

 

Going to bed early was a good call, since Eliot has no intention of rushing the process of getting ready in the morning. Even if they had gone to dinner with Quentin's mom, Eliot knows that the real boss fight of this trip is and always was going to be Julia Wicker.

That's fine. Eliot isn't intimidated by rich people who want to dislike him. He wouldn't have lasted six weeks in LA if he were.

He's not intimidated, but he's also not going to be sloppy about any of this, so he sets an alarm for well before Quentin would ever willingly be awake, giving himself an extra couple of hours to steam all his clothes in the bathroom, shine his shoes, trim his sideburns, and generally make sure not a single fiber, follicle, or pore of him goes rogue. Not the fuck today.

They're doing the casual thing today, so Eliot picks a linen-blend sage green shirt and a brown vest with small brass buckles on either side, which he feels hints slightly at the concept that he might know things about horses, but in an equestrian way rather than a 4-H way. He also rolls the sleeves up instead of cufflinks, which is the version of casual that Eliot can live with – like the rugged and competent type of nobility that Eliot is fairly sure always lands the girl in romance novels. Julia doesn't seem like a romance novel sort of broad, but he still wants to project the general air of landed gentry who still knows how to earn an honorable living.

Without a tie or tie-tack or cufflinks, Eliot feels borderline under-accessorized, so he's glad he thought to bring his good watch. He's still buckling it around his wrist as he emerges into the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. “Hey, there's a million kinds of these K-cups--” Quentin is telling him, until he turns around and falls abruptly silent as his eyes sweep over Eliot.

“Sorry, you were saying?” Eliot prompts.

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says vaguely, apparently unsure whether to stare at Eliot's hands, his hips, or his throat, and attempting to do all three at once. “I, uh – I mean, which, which kind of coffee did you...?”

Eliot can't help smirking. “You really are one of those disaster bisexuals I keep hearing about, aren't you?”

“I really am,” Quentin says. “Now imagine how every first date of my entire life has ever gone, and marvel that I _ever_ managed to get laid.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Eliot says, coming closer to join Quentin next to the drawer full of K-cups. “I think it's cute.”

Quentin reaches for Eliot's hand, fingers sweeping lightly up the ball of his thumb and over the heavy gold band of his watch. “I like this,” Quentin says softly. “It makes your hands look bigger. Or sets them off or something, I don't know. It's just. Sexy.”

“Noted,” Eliot says, leaning down to brush his lips teasingly over Quentin's. “Sexy but also mature and reliable and unlikely to steal your virtue and break your heart, right? Because we have to stay on-mission, here.”

“All of that, yeah,” Quentin assures him. “You look very reputable. And, uh – I kind of want to curl up at your feet? Is that a normal reaction, do you get that a lot?”

“Sadly, not as often as I've always felt I deserved,” Eliot says.

Their home base was selected partially on proximity to the Columbia campus, so they walk to their rendezvous, a college-adjacent coffee shop-slash-wine bar that feels like a cozy, jewel-toned den. As soon as they're through the door, the Divine Mystery that is Julia reveals herself, launched from a random table with a gleeful shriek and into Quentin's arms. Quentin laughs and squawks and hugs this pixie of a girl – Eliot never once imagined Julia being so _small_ – and it's actually touching, even to a hardened bitch like Eliot, how the notoriously easily embarrassed Quentin doesn't seem to care at all that they're making a noisy scene and drawing annoyed glances from strangers.

“Okay, okay,” Quentin says breathlessly when the gleeful noises settle down to form words. His arm is still firmly around Julia's shoulders, and he turns her to face Eliot. “So this is Julia,” he says with obvious pride.

“Hi, Julia,” he says, putting his hand out toward her. “I'm--”

“Oh, I know who you are, High King Dreamboat,” she interrupts, and her tone is mocking, but she cuts her eyes to Q as if to make sure he knows _he's_ the one she's actually mocking.

He seems to, but it only makes him smile more. “I swear I've never called you that,” he tells Eliot.

Julia shakes Eliot's hand, making no effort to hide the fact that she's looking him over with the critical eye of an art buyer, or possibly a jewel thief. Eliot returns the favor; Julia is wearing a camel overcoat and a plaid blanket scarf tucked into it, skinny jeans and wood-heeled slouch boots – all fairly plain, but plain in that thoughtlessly exquisite way that people dress down when they're accustomed to choosing the highest quality items even for their casual wear. Her long hair is wavy and tousled in the same, this-just-happens sort of way, even though it absolutely does not. She's unfussy, but unlike Quentin, she's really only pretending not to give a shit what she wears. “Is there any chance that I, a mere mortal, can live up to my reputation?” Eliot asks her.

“Unlikely,” she says.

“Julia, be nice,” Quentin says gently, squeezing her shoulders.

Julia rolls her eyes and smiles up at him. “Hey, you're the one who made me listen to _months_ of mooning around about your unattainable alpha bitch neighbor who looks like Hozier and fucks like Dionysus. Whose fault is it if the poor guy has been a little oversold?”

“None of that is verbatim,” he tells Eliot earnestly, and then after Julia elbows him in the ribs, “Only _some_ of that is verbatim. I did say you look like Hozier.”

“I kind of see it,” Julia says, giving Eliot another judicious once-over.

“Flattering,” Eliot says. “I find it all flattering, actually, except for the _unattainable_ part. I've been flirting as hard as I could, darling – where did I go wrong?”

“Ah, the world-famous immovable object that is Quentin Coldwater's low self-esteem,” Julia says with wry good cheer. “Good luck with that.”

“I'm going to count that as receiving your blessing,” Eliot tells her.

“You know what? If you can convince him he's allowed to have things that make him happy? You have it.”

“Okay, cool,” Quentin says, bright with just a streak of dryness. “Now that the two of you have solved all my problems, who wants coffee?”

Spending the day as the third wheel to Quentin and Julia is surprisingly pleasant – mostly because it's always a delight (and a relief, somewhere in the deep center of Eliot's rib cage where most of his fears live) to see Quentin genuinely happy, but also because Julia is undeniably likeable. She pulls them both along behind her in the wake of her enthusiasm, a constantly overflowing fountain of goofy stories about their college days – the semester that Julia kept two contraband guinea pigs named Ember and Umber in her dorm room, how Quentin once accidentally started a riot over irregular shuttle services in the Transportation office (“ _ringleader_ is a strong word,” Quentin says warily), a medication mix-up that resulted in Quentin attending his department's Senior Thesis Symposium high as a kite and trying desperately to pretend he could remember what his thesis was actually about, the kayaking trip Julia made Quentin go on, a story Quentin successfully prevails on Julia not to finish. “Come on, it was cute,” Julia says. “He'll think it's adorable.”

“I'll think it's adorable,” Eliot confirms.

“Safeword,” Quentin says.

“Of course your safeword is _safeword_ ,” Eliot scoffs. “I really have to do everything for you, don't I?”

“Apparently,” Quentin grumbles, sticking his hands in his coat pockets and blushing at the ground.

To really cap off the tour through Quentin and Julia's not-too-distant past, the three of them end up sitting behind the dorm so Julia can have a cigarette. With a practiced air, Julia sticks two of them at once in her mouth, lights them both, and hands one to Quentin, who at least has the grace to glance awkwardly at Eliot before he accepts it. “Do you smoke?” Julia asks.

“I'm not sure,” Eliot says blandly. “I don't think so.” Of course, he didn't really think Quentin did, either, but life's full of surprises.

“He quit recently,” Quentin explains.

“Yeah? Good for you,” Julia says, apparently earnestly. “How'd you do it?”

“More or less cold turkey,” he says.

Julia nods, and then shakes her head and breathes out a plume of smoke on a sigh. “James really wants me to quit. I know I should, I just. Ugh. But you have the kid now full-time, right? So that sounds motivating.”

That's Quentin's cue to break out his phone and show Julia the pictures she hasn't seen yet of Ted and Ted's school and a random few of Eliot and Margo that live in the same folder. She seems charmed by them, or else loyal enough to Quentin to fake it convincingly.

Eliot leans with his hip on the back of the bench where they're sitting, and he can't help but feel a certain holiday-ish warmth as he watches them, the way they beam at each other, the way they unconsciously mimic each other's cadences like old friends do, the sparkle in Quentin's eyes and the softness in Julia's smile. Eliot still doesn't entirely trust her – he certainly hasn't forgotten that she didn't exactly start out a big believer in Eliot as a concept – but he hasn't seen Quentin like this before, so at home with anyone. And that's worth something.

Their next stop post-campus is St. John the Divine, which Eliot pretends to protest until Quentin spends enough effort promising him that it's more museum than house of worship. “This is the second church you've gotten me inside, and then a _Catholic school_ , too?” Eliot teases. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to save my soul.”

“I swear I'm not,” Quentin laughs. “God, what good would you even be to me if you found Jesus or something? I'd have to explain it somehow to all the other families at the Satanist potluck....”

It's a good museum, though, and it turns out that Julia knows a thing or two about art – her mother is on the board of the goddamn Met, a fact that Quentin seems to have been oblivious to in spite of knowing the Wicker family for over a decade. She at least knows enough to notice that Eliot can identify the most worthwhile pieces in a given room without any trouble, and after she can't quite hide her surprise multiple times, Eliot finally says, “This might come as a shock, Manhattan, but we have the occasional gallery in California, too.”

She has the grace to look embarrassed, but she gets over it quickly, and they have a perfectly nice conversation about Keith Haring while they get coffee from a cart outside.

“So what's your thing, exactly?” Julia asks him at last. “What's with you and Q?”

“Julia,” Quentin grumbles.

But Eliot doesn't mind. He appreciates directness. “It's not as mysterious as you'd think,” Eliot says with a little shrug. “I mean – it sounds complicated when you factor in Margo and the co-parenting thing and all the rest, but that's really just. Cosmetic. At the end of the day, what's with us is just – we like each other.”

“It feels fast,” Julia says. “I mean, in the spring he was still trying to make it work with Alice, and then on a dime, bang, he moves halfway across the country, and bang, he's practically obsessed with you--”

“ _Julia_ ,” Quentin says.

“--and that's whatever, people throw themselves into new love affairs, right, but before normal people would even be discussing moving in together, you're suddenly _adopting his son_. I just don't get why, you know? You hardly know each other. And Quentin is not a person who usually jumps into things, and honestly you don't seem like you open up that fast to people most of the time, either. I feel like – there's just some piece of all this that I'm not seeing.”

It's not an unreasonable question, Eliot guesses, even if it is an impossible one to answer. What's with him and Q? _Something_. There's always been – something there. If Eliot were better with words....

“Okay, that's enough,” Quentin says in the quiet, serious voice that Eliot usually only hears him use with Teddy. “Look, Jules, this doesn't have to be – normal, or something that's easy to explain to other people. It only has to be good for us, and it _is_ good for us. He's good to me. And he doesn't really get anything out of it, so it's not for, like – there are no ulterior motives. He's just – good to me because he's a good person, and he cares about me, and I don't understand what missing piece you could be waiting for. What else is there? He's a good person and he's good to Teddy and he's good to me and I love him. So just. Relax, okay? Please?”

Julia sighs and takes another sip of her coffee. Quentin shoves his hands in his coat pockets and glares at the sidewalk. Eliot ponders the lines of the cathedral from the distance of a block away, and he wonders whose side of the argument he's actually on, here. Everything between him and Q has been too fast, too intense, too irreversible, and it's – worrisome. Eliot _isn't_ particularly worried, but it's almost a relief to know that _someone_ is. It makes him believe in sanity again. “That's the thing, Q,” Julia says. “He's charming and smart and good-looking and stable and – I'm trying to think of a nice way to say this, but--”

“Oh, my god,” Quentin bursts out. “You're trying to figure out what he sees in _me_ , aren't you?”

“I mean!” Julia protests helplessly. “ _I_ love you, but historically, your romantic life has been kind of – a constant struggle, you know? It's _weird_ that you overnight fell into this, like, perfect relationship with this perfect person, and I'm just trying to, to understand what – what happened there.”

“You weren't this suspicious about Alice, and she was out of my league, too,” Quentin says.

“Alice-- I mean. I love Alice, Alice is my friend, but it's – pretty _obvious_ that Alice has her own struggles in the dealing-with-other-humans department, okay? The two of you had this kind of natural bond over being self-conscious and anxious but secretly awesome. It made sense. _This_ ,” Julia says, running her hand up and down Eliot's general personal space like he's a barcode to be scanned, “this makes no sense to me. You just said he doesn't get anything out of being with you, and that can't be true or he wouldn't do it, but like – that's a missing piece, you know? You're missing pieces, too. And that feels off to me. I don't know, this whole thing, it just feels – off. Like something isn't what it seems.”

“This goes against my every instinct,” Eliot says, and that is not a joke, it's _painful_ to say this, but he can't stand here forever and say nothing, “but I am probably – not quite the catch you've been given the impression that I am. And my previous relationships...honestly don't bear thinking about, most of the time, but please trust me when I say that Quentin is....” God, he hates this kind of thing, he hates trying to demonstrate fucking _sincerity_. Quentin owes him so many blowjobs for this. “I think he's the one who's been good to me. He's – the only man who was ever in my life who didn't – try to change me, or – I don't know. Push me to be better at something. And he probably should do that, it's – it's not fair to him that he has to wait this long for me to-- I know I let him down in some ways. Emotionally. But he never makes me feel like I'm – doing it wrong even when I am definitely doing it wrong. So I don't know, I. It feels off to me too, sometimes. That a guy who has so much – goodness and affection to give – that he feels like it's not just. Some kind of waste. To throw it away on me. So if I have a _thing_ , I guess my thing is that I want to prove him right about that – that he isn't wasting all of this, all his time and – everything else he gives me.”

“Honestly?” Quentin says in an odd, slightly strangled voice. “If you were single, I'd propose to you right now.”

“You are the most absurd person I've ever met,” Eliot says, because he believes that Quentin means that quite literally. To Julia, he says, “Give me a cigarette now, I deserve one.” Julia must agree, because she gives him the cigarette and the light and takes another one for herself, and they both settle their nerves that way for a minute before Eliot gathers his dignity again and says, “Okay, now that I've been uncharacteristically humble in front of you, we are officially allies, and I need you to keep this thing where I'm the perfect boyfriend going through dinner so that Quentin can win the breakup. Can I count on your support?”

Julia gives him the reluctant smile that people tend to give Eliot when they know he's full of shit but they're coming not to mind it much. “You usually get what you want out of people, don't you?” she says.

“Yes and no,” Eliot says, and leaves it at that. A little honesty to keep her busy for a while.

There's a last-minute change of dinner plans over the phone, over Quentin's objections, because their original destination apparently had both sentimental value and flights of small-batch, handcrafted whiskey that Quentin was dying to introduce Eliot to. The new place is new-new, somewhere Quentin's never been, and he balks once when Julia tells him about it, and again when their Uber drops them off there. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “Come on, Jules, you know there is not a line-item in my budget for this.”

“Obviously James is picking it up,” she says.

“Obviously _not_ ,” Quentin snaps.

Julia hooks her arm through Quentin's and says, “Would you get over yourself? We're happy to see you, okay? You went off on your own, and it was brave and pretty stupid, and we were worried, but look how great you're doing – you're killing grad school, you're getting to have the relationship you wanted with Ted, you've met somebody you're serious about. We're proud of you, kid. Let us do something nice.”

“You know what's nice?” Quentin grumbles, but his expression has softened into surrender. “The duck fries at the Priory.”

“Fuck you and fuck your French fries,” Julia says pleasantly. “You're going to eat like a grown-up and you're going to like it.”

It makes more sense to Eliot now, how easily Quentin adapted to life with Margo.

James is already waiting at their table; he's tall and shiny-toothed and well-dressed but nondescript, the kind of guy that feels conventionally attractive in a slightly ski-wear-catalog way. He gives Julia a casual kiss on the cheek, Quentin a bone-crushing hug, and Eliot a manly handshake. He seems – Eliot doesn't know, fine. He's fine. He works in some kind of finance, because of course he does. He doesn't seem like Julia's type, but Eliot has already ascertained from the college stories that they have an open relationship, which must help; he can see James being a lot easier to love in measured doses.

Eliot tries not to be such a bitch about it. James does seem nice, and he plies Quentin with questions about his life and seems genuinely interested in the answers. He lets Eliot pick the wine, and after some conversation with their server, Eliot settles on the Dehlinger Russian River Valley. “What, nothing French?” Quentin asks dryly.

“Not at all,” Eliot says. “I am both a citizen and a patriot; I'm partial to California wines.”

“I mean, since when do you even drink wine?” Quentin says. He seems to be addressing his question toward the farmhouse-style light fixtures overhead.

“Not often,” Eliot says with a shrug, “but that doesn't mean I don't have opinions. You know, sometimes I feel like when I tell you I used to wait tables, you're picturing, like, a Steak'n'Shake. I worked in nice places. I fucked sommeliers. I paid attention.”

“Oh, okay,” Quentin says, unable to resist joining in the rest of the group's laughter. “Yeah, fine. I overlooked the sommelier factor, that's on me.”

“Jealousy is so unattractive,” Eliot says mildly as he picks up the dinner menu, feeling the warmth of Quentin's familiar _you're a dick and I adore you_ glare.

They're well into the wine and the pate plate when Alice finally flies through the door, muttering anxiously about delays on the train, and then posts up abruptly when she comes face-to-face with Quentin, blinking behind her big, black glasses as if she can't entirely match a name to the face. “Oh,” she says. “You – are you okay?”

She clearly regrets it the minute she says it, stammering an apology, but Quentin smiles and gamely tries to ignore the immense weirdness of that as a greeting. “Hi, Alice,” he says gently. “I'm glad you made it.”

“Sorry,” she says again, shrugging her large purse higher up on her shoulder and offering him a hesitant hug. “I didn't mean – you just look tired.”

“Whirlwind trip,” he says, hugging back just as hesitantly, before locating the empty chair between Eliot and James and moving around toward it. “Al, this is Eliot Waugh-- sorry, Eliot Hanson-Waugh,” Quentin says.

Eliot shakes her hand. She looks – Eliot doesn't know. Not like what he expected. He always pictures Alice as a kind of female Quentin, coltishly clumsy and mousey-brunette, dressed like a distracted librarian. She's nothing like that at all; in spite of her harried tumble into the restaurant, she radiates buttoned-up precision, platinum hair parted severely and flatironed within an inch of its life, wearing the practical preppy uniform of a sheath dress and cardigan and pearl earrings. She looks like the kind of person who Quentin was an absolute idiot to imagine would ever become anything _but_ a lawyer from Yale.

She's stunning, so. Of course Quentin was exactly that absolute idiot.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Alice,” he says. “I've heard only good things.”

Alice gives him a cool little half-smile and says, “Thank you for inviting me. It's weird, right? I know it's weird.”

“It's not at all,” he lies, before helping pull her chair out for her and pouring the last of the wine for her.

It is weird, a little, but mostly in the way that hanging out with a group of people who all go way back except for you is inevitably weird; the fact that Eliot is sitting between Quentin and the woman Quentin wanted to marry is an additional complication that barely registers. Eliot orders a pomegranate-glazed roasted quail and a second bottle of wine, because fuck it, James is the first guy who's ever splashed out on Eliot without wanting to have sex with him later, and that feels like a milestone in Eliot's mature and reputable phase of life; he'd be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity.

It's the first time since Eliot can remember that nobody really expects or wants him to carry the conversation, too, which he – likes, once he adjusts to it. He wonders how many thousands of times these four people have sat around a table and fallen into these exact debates and jokes and references, and if they've ever done it in front of an audience before, or if until Eliot came along, this was only ever a couples' event. Anyway, it's nice to see Quentin so lively and relaxed, competing with Julia for talking room while James laughs appreciatively at both of them and Alice lobs the occasional wry bomb into the conversation and watches everyone scurry.

Eliot manages to contribute here and there, he feels. Some of it is the kind of book-nerdy that Eliot just tunes out while nodding, and some of it is the minutiae of primaries and political scandals; Eliot usually gets his political news in a cursory daily glance over Buzzfeed, so he's not entirely uninformed, but he still doesn't have any profound insights to offer. But a lot of the conversation is the kind of low-key bougie pop cultural literacy that he and Quentin already share, and Eliot fits easily into the parts that leapfrog from _Crazy Ex-Girlfriend_ to Guillermo del Toro to Lana Del Rey to _Fleabag_.

Once he's established himself at least provisionally as a part of the pack, they venture into more personal territory, and Eliot gets to hear about the trauma of planning a wedding with a guest list of three hundred assholes who've never even met the bride, and sentimental praise for the first Ted Coldwater, who James and Julia remember as an amiable, stodgy, eminently comforting presence in the midst of their hectic, high-powered prep school adolescence. Quentin smiles softly at his rack of lamb, and Eliot listens with rapt fascination. Eliot even gets to hear the kayaking story, which isn't nearly as scandalous as he was led to believe, in the grand scheme of things, although it features a truly startling amount of alcohol, a head wound (Julia's), and a first gay kiss (Quentin's) with an upstate hospital orderly in a supply closet.

“I'm shocked,” Eliot tells Quentin, although he isn't, not even remotely. When Eliot was the same age, he was snorting coke off of Margo's ass on a sailboat as a ploy to seduce the Macedonian diplomat she was dating, so like, he can cope with the supply closet story, it's fine. “I was led to believe I was your great gay awakening.”

“You were specifically told you were _not_ ,” Quentin corrects him primly.

“Yes, but I ignored that,” Eliot says, just to be obnoxious. He can't help it that Quentin's _you're a dick and I adore you_ face is so irresistibly cute.

After a while it's not weird anymore – after possibly more than Eliot's fair share of two bottles of ungodly overpriced pinot noir, and then a bar. By the second bar, Eliot feels like he's been here all his life, with Quentin cozied under his arm and Julia having entirely the wrong opinions about Journey and James trying and failing to defend Tim Burton on artistic grounds and Alice taking it weirdly personally that Eliot has never even heard of _Carnival Row_.

“Your friends like me,” Eliot marvels aloud in the car on the way home.

“Of course they like you,” Quentin mumbles against Eliot's sleeve. “Who doesn't like you?”

Eliot doesn't have the processing power for that question currently, so he ignores it. “Alice, too.”

“Alice is my friend,” Quentin says.

“Baby, no, she's not,” Eliot says as kindly as he can. “She only came because not coming would show weakness.”

Quentin lifts his head and looks at Eliot, wounded. “She's – that's not true. Why do you? No. Alice is, why, no.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, pushing Quentin's head back down. “She does like me, though,” he adds.

He's not entirely sure how he knows this, but he thinks – Alice told him? At the second bar, he let her try his passion fruit gin fizz, and she said _I don't hate you_ and _he was the only person in the world who never once called me a bitch_ , and Eliot said _if it makes you feel better, he's definitely called me a bitch_ , and she laughed and bumped against him and then she said – other things? Personal things, drunk things – he's probably going to wish at some point he could remember exactly what, but right now it doesn't much matter.

Nothing matters and nothing hurts, and he tumbles into some stranger's bed, trying to kiss Quentin while Quentin laughs and tries to unbutton Eliot's vest, until they both give up and Eliot sings On the Street Where You Live while Quentin presses small, earnest kisses all over Eliot's hand before pressing it against his cheek. Eliot lets his fingertips move in soft circles against Quentin's temple and his cheekbone, feeling Quentin nuzzle into his palm, like he could just – curl up in the cup of Eliot's hand and be held there forever.

_I love you_ , Eliot either thinks or says, but probably just thinks. _I'm so lucky._

 

Eliot wakes up fully dressed down to his shoes and medium-hungover, but it's manageable if he gets up right now and hydrates. Of course, the problem with that plan is that there's a boy curled over half his body, pinning him down.

“Hey,” Eliot whispers, threading his fingers through Quentin's hair.

“Yeah?” Quentin answers, and if he's making distinct words, he's been awake for at least five or ten minutes.

“Are you watching me sleep?” Eliot asks, with some vague thought of pretending to find that creepy. He can't help smiling, though.

Quentin huffs a quiet laugh and squirms around a little, propping himself up on his elbow without unwinding his legs from around Eliot's leg. “Not on purpose,” he says, sounding bleary and content. “Just woke up.”

Eliot reaches over and pats Quentin's hip lightly. “If you let me up I'll get us both water.” Quentin grunts and rolls onto his back, which is not a position that motivates Eliot to get  _out_ of bed, but. Hangover. Hydrate. Important.

It takes forever to get two glasses of water from the filtered trickle in the refrigerator door; Eliot swears he almost passes out while he waits, his forehead pressed to the cool black metal. He drinks most of his while he shuffles back to the bedroom, and he arrives to find Quentin well and truly asleep again. It's only a little after seven, and Eliot doesn't have the heart to wake him. He puts the second glass of water on the nightstand closest to Quentin, and he heads to the bathroom to find out what manner of mess he's turned into.

The situation is not good; Eliot always, always regrets it when he falls asleep without taking off his eyeliner, where it flakes off and mixes with sleep gunk and gets stuck to his waterline forever. His hair has gone frizzy and his skin is blotchy, and he basically looks old and exhausted, so he has his work cut out for him.

By the time he gets out of the shower, he feels almost human again. When he walks naked into the bedroom Quentin is awake, and he looks Eliot over with surprise and hunger, as if this was – something new. As if it's still at least a tiny bit new to him every time he realizes he's allowed to have this much of Eliot. Eliot smiles at him and lies down alongside him so Quentin can roll with minimum effort toward him and into a kiss.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Quentin murmurs, stroking over Eliot's arm as their faces hover close together, both of them undecided about kissing versus talking.

Eliot hums in agreement, draping an arm over Quentin to squeeze his ass a little. “Did you drink the water?”

“I drank the water,” Quentin says. “Thank you.” He touches his lips to Eliot's again, and then once more. “So today,” he says throatily, “let's just do the dumbest Christmassy tourist bullshit, how does that sound? We'll go to Radio City, and Rockefeller Center, and see the tree and the skaters. We'll wander Fifth Avenue and pretend we can afford anything we want.”

“Will you try things on for me?” Eliot asks, mostly out of curiosity.

“Absolutely,” Quentin says, which surprises Eliot a little; he thought he'd have to put more effort into it than that. “Whatever you want, El, it's your day. There's a really good deli, we'll have cheesecake and the best fucking pastrami you've ever had in your life. We'll just – do whatever. Whatever you want.”

Mostly what Eliot currently wants is right here in bed with him, but he's sure he'll warm up to the idea of bumming around Midtown quickly enough once they get started. “That sounds perfect,” he says.

It is perfect. It's – perfect, the whole day, the whole – the stupid tree and the stupid skaters and the Christmas carols in every store and the pastrami sandwiches and the fact that they're here at all, two stupid, gawking tourists amidst a crowd of same. Eliot shoots some video of Quentin playing with dragons in the Lego store, and then they buy a bunch of crap that Ted doesn't need. He logs onto Grindr for the first time in what feels like a decade, just to show Quentin how many other queers are standing within a thousand feet of them, but instead of feeling empowered and affirmed, Quentin glares at him and says, “Since when are you even on Grindr?”

“I mean,” Eliot says. “Since – forever, but I don't....”

“It's fine, whatever,” Quentin says. “I'd just like to point out that if  _I_ were on Grindr, you'd have a meltdown. But do what you want.”

“That's not even true,” Eliot grumbles, but he deletes it from his phone anyway, and Quentin looks smug about the whole thing, which is infuriating and adorable.

They split a falafel platter for dinner and call home, which gives Eliot something to focus on rather than vibrating apart at the seams waiting for the show to start. He thinks he's been pretty cool about the whole thing, all things considered, but he still takes a bunch of selfies outside the theater and in the lobby, because he knows when this is all over he'll have to keep reminding himself it was real.

_Hadestown_ is amazing, it's everything Eliot wanted it to be, and they both get weak and teary, and they hold hands during it and they hold hands afterwards, waiting on the curb for their car. “Merry Christmas,” Quentin tells him, gazing up at him like he's some kind of iconic symbol of the season, like the Rockefeller Christmas tree. Eliot swallows twice and still can't really find his voice, so instead he squeezes Quentin's hand hard.

If anything mars the day, it's the fact that they mess around for what feels like a long time that night, and it's still not quite clicking, they can't get Quentin past the slight, odd self-consciousness that comes from trying sexy things when you don't entirely feel sexy. Finally he puts his forearm over his eyes and says, “ _Fuck._ I'm sorry.”

Eliot pries his arm away and kisses his forehead. “No, sweet boy,” he murmurs. “Nothing's wrong, you're good. You're so good to me.” He can tell by the slight narrowing of Quentin's eyes and the way he shakes his head that he disagrees, but he doesn't want to get into an argument about it. Eliot sighs and manhandles Quentin over to his side so they can spoon. He gets a little reaction – just a shiver, but an intriguing one – when he brushes the backs of his fingers up Quentin's throat, but he chooses not to follow up on that at the moment. “Is there anything you do want?” he asks instead.

Quentin is quiet for a minute. He sounds reluctant when he finally says, “Not without violating your enthusiastic-consent ground rules, I guess. No.”

Eliot kisses behind his ear. “Can you – please just try not to get up in your head about this? It's fine, it really is. It's just one night.”

“I wanted today to be....”

Eliot refrains from telling Quentin that it really seems like the more committed he gets to making things perfect, the more it seems like things tend to backfire. That's true and probably useful information, but there's such a thing as a time and a place for that conversation. Instead he says, “I don't think I could – ever really explain to you how much – what today meant to me.” Quentin's head turns a little, enough to indicate he's listening, even if he can't see Eliot clearly. Eliot lets his thumb skim back and forth along Quentin's collarbone, trying to gather his thoughts. “When I was a kid,” he finally says, “I used to – I had these old cassettes. I don't even remember owning a CD player til I was like twelve or something. We had a tape deck in the house, and I had-- I couldn't even ask my dad to buy them for me, I didn't know why not, but I knew he wouldn't like it. So I bought them from sale bins at Wal-Mart or the mall if we were going into Indianapolis for something. I usually had my own money, my dad let me sell the eggs from my own chickens, to teach me responsibility or something. Anyway, sometimes I'd buy whatever stupid thing was cool to kids, but usually I'd buy these tapes. I had  _The Lion King_ and  _Rent_ and  _Jesus Christ Superstar_ and  _West Side Story_ and  _Les Miz_ and, uh, I had  _Hello, Dolly!_ I don't think  _Hello, Dolly!_ is all that significant or foundational, but I found it on sale, and I owned it. I don't know where I discovered that stuff, or why I cared about it so much. I guess there's just something about the idea of – of these very simple, straightforward stories, where all the emotional moments are so heightened by the music. I don't know. I loved them. And I'd – think about being older, and leaving Indiana, and going to see a musical. And when I imagined it.... There was always someone else there. No one specific. I wasn't really thinking – it took a while, honestly, before the idea of having a real person in my life.... I just didn't want to go alone. I was – lonely, you know. A lonely kid. And so part of the fantasy was – whatever, just having a friend, or – someone to go places that weren't church or the fucking farm with. Someone who wanted more than that, like me.”

“If you're trying to comfort me by telling me that I'm a small child's idea of the perfect boyfriend....” Quentin says, his voice strung tight between trying-and-failing to make a joke and genuine self-loathing.

Eliot holds him tighter, because he doesn't know what else to do. “I'm trying to tell you that – I wish I could talk to myself, back then. Or send a message or whatever. I wish I could just tell myself that in twenty years, I wouldn't be lonely anymore. That I'd have a family. That I really would go to Broadway, and I'd go with – someone smart and handsome and kind, someone who believes in me, who – likes being with me. It just, it feels bigger to me. Bigger than you're giving it credit for. Of course I love fucking you, but I just wish you could – could see that even without that, you're – the biggest thing in my life. That you – exactly the way you were tonight, you're. Life-changing. And it would have changed so much for me if I'd known back then that eventually I'd have tonight. That we would have it, together.”

“I love you,” Quentin says. “And I – I want you to know that I'm doing better, but – it's not over yet. God, Alice could see it the second she looked at me. I'm functioning, but. Everything is hard right now. It might be hard for a while.”

That's not new. It's been hard for a while already. Maybe it's not life-changing if it's not hard? Eliot doesn't know, maybe that's not a universal truth. Maybe the two of them just happen to, coincidentally, be both. Instead of any of that, he holds Quentin tighter and says, “Can you let me help?”

“I can try,” Quentin says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice the chapter total has shifted up a bit, I'm sorry/you're welcome? This is Hth and the Infinitely Expanding Outline, because everything these dipshits do takes twice as long as I anticipated, because they keep having more sex and more tender conversations about their stupid soft feelings, idk. Anyway, this time for sure? 14 chapters? Probably almost definitely.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's your friendly content warning! Obviously you know, because you read the tags, and you read 10 other chapters, that child abuse is a theme in this story, but just for the sake of absolute clarity, the end of this chapter goes into somewhat more depth and detail about Eliot's abuse. I wouldn't call it graphic, per se, but it definitely describes some traumatic situations, and I want you to be conscious of that so you can use good judgment, whatever that looks like for you.

They land in Indianapolis at around five on Wednesday, wrung out from sex and drinking and theater-drama and drama-drama – all the signs of a successful vacation – and Eliot is brooding quietly about, he doesn't even know, life, this is his life now, there's a lot of brooding.

Quentin interrupts whatever he's saying about the baggage claim process, Eliot isn't really listening, and grabs Eliot's coatsleeve. Eliot's attention follows the gesture Quentin makes with his free hand, and his whole inner – being or whatever – kind of flares hot and expands semi-painfully, because in spite of the fact that Quentin drove them to the airport, Margo and Ted are both there to pick them up. They're still too far away at the base of the long escalator for Eliot to hear anything, but he sees Margo spot them and point them out to Ted, and she motions upward, cueing Ted to hoist a big posterboard sign as far over his little head as he can manage. It says HANSON WAUGH COLDWATER in sparkly magenta block letters, and the bottom corner has an equally sparkly red apple, while the opposite corner has a black-and-white picture pasted to it. As they get a little closer, Eliot can see that it's King Kong clinging to the Empire State Building and swatting planes.

“I hate them,” Eliot says, after clearing his throat. “They're such an embarrassment.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, smiling.

He fully intends to explain exactly that to Margo, who is nominally the adult in this scenario and really ought to know how to behave in public, but somehow his plan goes a little pear-shaped, and instead of that, he ends up hugging her so hard that he's swinging her off her feet while she hangs off his neck. He does at least manage to mumble,“You're an idiot,” into her hair, but she just squeezes his neck harder and laughs.

Ted is firmly in Quentin's arms and deep in the midst of a monologue by the time Eliot turns his attention that way – did they go to the zoo, do they want tacos for dinner, what kind of play was the play, don't look in the trunk there's presents there – and Eliot has never in his life made such an abrupt heel-turn from brooding into laughter.

Quentin finally breaks into the swift-moving stream of Ted's consciousness by saying, “Hey, what do you think about this idea? What if we let Eliot and Margo have a little date night, and you sleep over at my apartment, would that be fun? You have a room there that you never even get to use.”

“Sleep over the whole night?” Ted asks, eyes wide. “Just you and me?”

Quentin smiles into his kid's eyes, and it's just almost too much to take. Eliot's not a sentimental man, but he's _human_ , okay? “Yeah, just you and me,” Quentin says. “Is that a yes?” Ted nods so hard Eliot's almost afraid his head will fly off.

So they get tacos close to the airport and then split off to caravan home, and Eliot doesn't really follow the logic that ends up with him driving Quentin's car, but whatever. It's kind of nice to be alone for an hour or two with just his thoughts and his playlists.

Margo drives like a bat out of hell, so she beats him home by a few minutes, and when Eliot drags his luggage into his living room, he's walking into the semi-organized chaos that he knows and tolerates – Quentin trying to steer Ted into packing just a toothbrush and some pajamas like they're going across the hall and not finding the Northwest Passage, Margo already firing up margaritas in the blender, and it's all, _Eliot where do we keep this_ and _Eliot are we out of that_ , crushing in on him at the same time that he's experiencing the relief of being home – of knowing what it feels like to be _home_.

It's so much, they're all so much, all the time, and Eliot kind of wants to duct tape all three of their mouths shut for like _two minutes_ , and also he would kind of burn the world to the ground if anything ever threatened a single one of them. So, yeah. That's what being home feels like.

Somehow they all manage to untangle themselves, and Quentin and Ted get out the door, and Margo puts a drink in Eliot's hand. The lights are blinking on his Christmas tree, and the whole past week has been one goddamn emotion after another, and Eliot puts his free arm around Margo and pulls her against him and just stands there, catching his breath, finding solid ground under his feet again.

He's home. He's home.

This is what it feels like to come home.

“Do you want to talk about it, sweetness?” Margo asks him gently. “Or do you want to get drunk about it?”

“No, no, it's not like that,” he assures her. “It was good. It's just – good to be back, too.”

They do get a little bit drunk, though, which is probably the reason that Eliot tells her – more than he's probably supposed to tell her. He tells her almost everything: the meds and Quentin's mother and Alice and Julia and the fights and the the stupid, soft confessions that were almost too much but not quite enough. Margo listens, petting his chest while he lies across her lap, until Eliot runs out of dire secrets to share. He sighs gustily and says, “Why is it so easy to tell you I love you, and so hard when it's him?”

“Because romance is stupid,” Margo says, “and you're stupid for him.”

That sounds plausible. “I deleted Grindr from my phone for him,” Eliot says, with a very slight drunken whine in his voice. “I wasn't even _using_ it, there was no _reason_ to do that, except he didn't seem happy and I'm stupid.”

“I'm sorry,” Margo says, not sounding even slightly sorry, “that is hilarious to me, the way you say that like it even registers on the scale of the stupid shit you've done for that boy.” He acknowledges her point with a grunt. “Think about how I feel! I've changed as much as you, and I'm not even the one who went and fell in love.”

She is, though, a little bit. Just with a different Coldwater. Eliot could say that, but it feels like a lot of work in his current state. “Have we changed that much?” he says instead.

“Oh my god, yes,” she says mournfully. “Remember when we used to be glamorous, amazing mega-bitches? And now what are we? _Married?_ What the fuck, you know?”

He does know. “It wasn't all that great, though, was it?” he says. “All that time we spent – like, what, what were we doing? Getting high and wrecking people's lives and making people scared of us, was it really-- Did it make us happy?”

“People aren't really happy,” Margo says. “Not unless they like, join a cult or something.”

“That's really dark,” Eliot mumbles, letting his eyes fall closed as she strokes his hair. “You're not happy now?”

“I'm...getting there,” she says quietly.

Eliot opens his eyes. “I have to sit up,” he says seriously. “So we can drink more.”

They make more margaritas. They drink.

They put the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack on, and at some point it feels like an okay idea to help Margo up onto the breakfast bar so that they can practice the lift, but at the last second some dying flicker of good sense makes Eliot say, “Wait, wait, hang on. This is – I'm probably going to drop you.”

“No, you're not,” Margo says.

“Bambi, I'm not a thousand percent sure I'm standing up,” he says. “Come on, come down. I don't wanna hurt you, come down.”

She makes a face at him, but she lets him take her hands and help her back down. “See, this is what I mean,” she says, but whatever she means is interrupted when her foot grazes the barstool and sets it spinning, throwing her off balance. She pitches forward, so Eliot has to catch her and put her back on her feet, and it's exactly like _Dirty Dancing_ , but drunk and ridiculous. “I told you,” Margo says, smacking her palm against his chest. “You won't hurt me. You're good at this – all this, this – daddy crap. You're – really _good_ at it.”

“Yeah, hot, right?” he says dryly.

Margo leans against him, arms around his waist. “A little,” she says. “Ohhh, do we still have that Frangelico? We could put it in hot chocolate, it would be like Nutella.”

“That's a terrible idea,” Eliot says. “Let's do it immediately.”

Something goes wrong in the process of making instant hot chocolate – mistakes were made, Eliot doesn't believe in assigning blame, they're all just moving forward instead – and they end up just putting the Frangelico in eggnog instead. Eliot tries to clean out the microwave; it doesn't go particularly well. Too late, he realizes they should've used Quentin's gay little teapot instead of the microwave.

He doesn't remember saying that out loud, but he must have, because Margo starts giggling so hard she almost chokes on her eggnog, and when she can speak she says, “It's called a kettle, you dumbass, not a gay teapot.”

“Okay, I know what it's called,” he says. “I forgot the word, can I live?”

“Why are you _cleaning_? Tonight is not cleaning night, tonight is date night.”

“It's not,” Eliot says, “because I wouldn't get this drunk on a date, and neither would you, probably.”

“I wouldn't go on a date at all,” she says.

Eliot gives up on the microwave, and then he almost gives up on walking, but manages to keep one hand on the kitchen counter to steady himself while he circles around to sit on the stupid bench of their stupid barn-table. Margo brings him another eggnog, and he can't remember what the opposite of _you're welcome_ is, so he just grabs it with both hands and mumbles, “That's my girl.”

There might be some more dancing. That seems physically improbable, but Eliot swears he remembers it.

They definitely make it to bed eventually – well, to the bedroom, both of them sprawled out on top of the covers, holding hands. “What about Josh?” Eliot finally remembers to ask. “You're dating him, aren't you? He took you to South Bend, that's. That's a thing. You're in a thing.”

“I'm not,” Margo says. “I like him because – he's like me. Everybody else-- I can't let people come around for too long or else they start to fall in love with me, or think they have rights or something, but Josh. He doesn't want me like that, he just wants.... You know? He's... like me.”

Eliot turns his head, letting his eyes gradually focus in on Margo's delicate profile as she stares up at the ceiling. “You really don't want.... Ever? Because it's so stupid, yes, but it's – nice, too. It feels....” Really nice. He finally understands why people go crazy for it, for the love thing. He really _gets_ it now.

Margo squeezes his hand. “I already have you, baby. _You're_ stupid and nice.”

“Highly valid point,” Eliot chuckles. “But I mean--”

“I know, I know what you mean. I just. I like the way things are.”

“You can't think like that,” Eliot hears himself say. “You can't get – get attached to the way things – what about when they change? Everything changes, you know?”

“Liking how things are doesn't mean you're not allowed to like things when they change, too,” she says. “There's things I'd change, good changes. We could buy a big farmhouse. I could learn how to paint. We could plant a flower garden or some shit. Have a couple of babies. I don't know, that would be good change, right?”

“Can we bring Q?” Eliot asks. “To the farmhouse?”

“I mean, I think you and Teddy would both be fucking insufferable if we didn't,” she says. That makes sense. Margo always makes so much sense. Eliot loves that about her. “It's a big house. We'll bring whoever we decide we love.”

They don't even _like_ enough people to throw a dinner party. “I don't want anybody but him,” Eliot says. Once it's out there in the air, he decides it sounds true, but just for the sake of science, he double-checks. “He's all I want.”

“I know, sweetness,” Margo says, and it's a secret that only Eliot knows, that only he really believes – how infinitely kind Margo can be when she chooses. “And you know I want the world for you. After everything you've been through, you deserve everything you want.”

Who gets that – everything he wants? Eliot can't begin to imagine. He can barely imagine this flower garden of Margo's, let alone...the world.

But still. But still. Eliot already has so much that he could never have imagined in advance. So who's to say? Maybe this farmhouse has a tiny south-facing garrett at the top of the stairs, and they could make a little office for Quentin to grade his papers and write his book, and they could put a futon up there for Eliot to nap with Fester, although probably he'll never get to nap again for like, decades, if Margo has her way about babies. But still, but still. In Eliot's mind, it's a safe room full of air and sunlight, and he can close his eyes for as long as he wants and listen to the purr of the cat and the tik tik tik of Quentin turning the world into words, and nothing would be too much and everything would be enough.

As a fantasy, it doesn't suck.

 

_Hydrate_ , Eliot thinks when he wakes up with a skull full of ball-bearings and half of Margo's hair in his mouth. This is manageable if they can just hydrate.

It feels like a thought he's had recently, which is weird, because he barely drinks anymore.

Well, he barely drinks _irresponsibly_ anymore.

Eliot takes his sweet time trying to slither out from under Margo, and he would probably have been successful if a button on his vest hadn't caught in her hoop earring. “Son of a fuck!” she shrieks, but when she pulls her hand away from her ear, there's redness but no blood. He tries to present this as good news, but he either isn't managing to make the words come out or she just doesn't care to hear it, because she kicks him in the thigh and says, “Get away from me, you cock,” as if that weren't what he was _trying_ to do in the first place.

Whatever. He's still going to get her some juice, and hopefully when she's more awake and less hungover, she'll feel really guilty about how much of a better person Eliot is than her.

He's still indulging this incredibly unlikely fantasy scenario as he opens the refrigerator and pulls out the orange juice, and only as he closes the door again does he notice that there's a new addition to the gallery of grade-school art projects accumulating on the refrigerator. Eliot slides it out from under the magnet and tries to make his bleary eyes focus.

It's a large-ish white page with a border of green construction-paper evergreen branches and red construction-paper bows, and on the top there's a pre-printed label that says MY FAMILY. In red marker, Ted has carefully divided the blank page into two large squares side-by-side, clearly representing the two condos divided by their shared hallway. On the left side, alone, there's a stick-figure Quentin, identifiable by his relatively long brown hair, and also by the carefully printed _Dad_ above him. On the right side, there's a small Ted, a giant Eliot who apparently spans floor to ceiling with short dark curls, and Margo in a skirt far longer than any actual skirt Margo owns, with curls in the same black marker as Eliot's, also unrealistically long. Those pictures are also labeled: _Ted_ and _Eliot_ and _Mom_.

Eliot stares at it for what's probably a long time, but eventually he remembers to put it back (exactly where he found it, because the engineering involved with the magnets-to-paper ratio on their refrigerator is not a joke) and pour the juice.

By the time he gets back to the bedroom, Margo has negotiated the porous boundaries between getting up and staying in bed by shedding her pants and bra, then getting under the covers. “Drink this,” he orders, setting her juice down, and she whines about it, but she sits up against the headboard and drinks.

They didn't really discuss what time Q would bring the kid home, but it's close to Ted's normal wake-up call, so it could really be any time between now and lunch, so it's hard to guess whether Eliot should prepare for the day or try to seize another hour or two of sleep. He finally decides to take a page from Margo's book and strips off the more restrictive items of clothing before getting back in bed with his juice. “How are you feeling?” he asks her.

Margo shrugs and says, “Mildly shitty? I've been worse. You?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Hey, uh.” He loses his train of thought when Margo leans over against his arm. He suspects he only feels mildly shitty because he's still moderately drunk. With some effort, he focuses in on what he's trying to say. “Is Ted – has he been calling you Mom?”

“Some of the time,” she says. “I thought – that's good, right? It means he feels at home.”

“It's good,” Eliot says. Right? Right. “So. Here's my thought. You should adopt him.”

Margo stops moving with her glass of juice, cradled in both hands, halfway to her mouth. It's almost comical. Eliot knows she's looking at him, but he can't see her expression; he's looking at the juice, and her hands. At her flawless plum manicure, and the charm bracelet on her right wrist, and the ruby ring on her left hand. “Why do you want that all of a sudden?” she says carefully.

“Multiple reasons,” Eliot says. “I don't know, it's working out and we want to keep doing it, so – why wouldn't we just – settle it, you know? That way we wouldn't keep on needing to have the CFS visits, which are kind of a waste of our time, not to mention our taxes. And there would be other benefits. If you're serious about having a baby at some point, that could – I would think that could potentially feel strange to him, knowing there was a different – status or whatever, with your foster kid and your legal one. If we wanted to move out-of-state at some point, we could just do that without having to navigate the system. It just. I don't see anything about it that doesn't make sense. I don't think Q would mind.”

“I wasn't thinking about Q,” she says. “Would _you_ mind?”

“It's my idea,” he points out.

“I know, but. You're the-- You do all the actual work around here, Eliot. You feed him and pick him up from school and – you're the one who's with him, way more of the time than Q and I are. Wouldn't it feel strange to _you_ , being the only one without some kind of official relationship with him?”

Eliot doesn't want to blow the question off; he really does think it over, at least as much as the portion of his brain that's not still soused can manage. “I basically would,” he finally says. “I mean, a father and a mother and a stepfather – it's not some kind of wildly outré family structure. A lot of kids he meets will have all those things. People will just accept it without even asking for an explanation, you know? I think it would really. Normalize things. For Ted.”

“Ugh,” Margo says. “This is a lot for seven in the morning. I think we should table this for a minute, maybe ask Kady when we see her in January what she thinks. Are you sure this is what you want?”

Is he sure? He feels sure. But he's also a little drunk, so. “Pretty sure,” he says. “Yeah. I mean.... He's never had a mother. And obviously he wants one. I can't think of a good reason he should – not have that.”

Of course he wants one. Who could possibly blame him?

“Yeah. Okay,” Margo says. She finishes her juice and puts the glass aside, then turns toward Eliot and latches onto his arm with both of hers, making him spill his last mouthful of juice as she drags him down. He'd complain, but she puts a comforting little kiss on his collarbone as she nestles up against him, so he shuts up and holds her while they go back to sleep.

 

The next time Eliot wakes up, his condo smells like bacon. His stomach isn't sure about this development.

He gets out of bed – without injuring Margo this time – and puts on a robe, venturing out into the main room, where Ted is happily watching YouTubed robot cartoons and Quentin is making himself useful in the kitchen, his hair in the bun that only seems to appear when he's feeling very shoulder-to-the-wheel capital-p Productive. “Hi,” Quentin says when Eliot comes up behind him and puts a hand on Quentin's shoulder. “Thought I'd get you started on those scary hangover sandwiches you like.”

“Aren't you sweet,” Eliot says.

“Every now and then,” Quentin agrees placidly. “Go put some pajamas on, there's a dress code for Hangover Mornings.”

Instead of obeying, Eliot crowds up behind Quentin, both hands on his shoulders now, and leans down to kiss his neck. Quentin hums his approval, but he starts to squirm a bit when Eliot nuzzles up behind his ear, all the skin along the way conveniently exposed thanks to the manbun. “This – this probably isn't the safest,” Quentin says breathlessly. “While I'm frying stuff. We might, um, start, start a grease fire.”

“Then you shouldn't be so fucking pretty,” Eliot murmurs into the back of his neck. He can feel the tremble run through Quentin's body, and Eliot thinks – he thinks _I love you_ , so loudly that it feels like it has to come out of his mouth or else it might crack open his skull. His heart is pounding, and he feels dizzy and sort of hungry-nauseous and he aches with the thought of that little sunlit room at the top of the stairs, and he's never – he can't think of anyone who's done this for him. Who's ever fucked Eliot for months and still wanted more and then kept on coming around just to – to take care of Eliot when he's being lazy and messy and hasn't even changed out of yesterday's shirt. “You know how I feel?” he whispers against Quentin's warm skin – a cop-out, yes, but he knows Quentin will let him get away with it. He knows he can do almost anything, and Quentin will understand. “About you?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly. “Of course I know.” He rolls his shoulder enough to nudge Eliot away and says, “Go change clothes and let me concentrate on not burning this.”

It's not exactly the same as the old Hangover Mornings, primarily because they don't drink, and with four people they can't rock-paper-scissors for movie rights, but Quentin has a dice-rolling app on his phone (“None of your business” is the official reason he gives for that), and so they roll for initiative, a concept Eliot really wishes he understood well enough to mock as brutally as he suspects it deserves. Quentin wins, and the movie he picks is, inexplicably, _Pete's Dragon_. “What?” he says. “I like it. Not the remake. The one with Helen Reddy.”

“From like, the fucking 70s?” Eliot clarifies.

“Okay, you don't like one single song that was made in this century, so I don't think you get to judge,” Quentin says, shoving him over to make room for himself on the couch.

“A filthy lie,” Eliot says as he punches the title into Amazon's search bar. “You're just holding a grudge because I won't enable your Taylor Swift – _whatever_ that is.”

“Hey, um, actually?” Quentin says, “By any reasonable metric, Taylor is the most successful and beloved singer-songwriter of our generation, so like--”

“Hey, um, _actually_ , who the fuck cares?” Margo says, dropping onto the couch on Eliot's other side. “Shhh, it's Quiet Morning. Watch your movie.”

They do that, more or less, although Eliot dozes through parts of it, lying on the couch with Margo while Quentin and Ted converse in quiet voices as they work on learning solitaire on the floor, and it's not quite Hangover Mornings as they used to be, but Eliot can live with that.

God, he could live like this. He really could.

 

Eliot actually has to go back to work on Saturday night, which feels like the very definition of injustice while Quentin and Margo and Teddy are all on vacation, but he has a warm burst of nostalgia when he checks his phone on break and sees that Q has texted him, _Come over after work?_ They haven't done the two a.m. hookup since Eliot doesn't even know when. Since before the wedding? Like a million years ago or something.

(The wedding was four months ago. How the fuck can _that_ be right?)

_Why should I?_ he texts back. Look, he wants Quentin to feel warm and safe and, like, loved and all that, but complacency is not a good look on anybody.

He feels like he's internally prepared for a very wide range of responses, everything from an eye-rolling emoji to an entirely earnest five-paragraph essay on Quentin's current mental and emotional health and how it would be positively impacted by sucking Eliot's cock sometime before dawn. Quentin's mercurial like that.

Eliot is not internally prepared to get a dick pic, but that's what happens anyway. Full of surprises, this boy. _You make a compelling case_ , Eliot texts, and that does get him the eye-roll.

The rest of his night passes in a blur; Eliot's boss would lose his damn mind if he had any idea how strong Eliot was making the drinks, but fuck it, people who are out partying the weekend before Christmas probably have good reasons to want to be drunk, and Eliot is here to provide that service.

When he lets himself into Quentin's apartment, there's a stillness to the place that makes Eliot suspicious that he knows what he'll find behind Quentin's bedroom door, and he's completely right. Eliot sighs, but he tries not to be ungracious, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. It's late, and frankly Eliot would probably be asleep too, if their positions were reversed.

The smell of coffee pervades the apartment, and Eliot goes back to the kitchen to investigate; there's a half-full pot, still very warm, and he pours himself a mug while thinking tender thoughts of Quentin making himself midnight coffee, trying to pep-talk himself into staying awake so they wouldn't have to wait until morning to fuck. It's just such a Quentin thing to do, Eliot feels – stubborn and a little slutty and low-key romantic. And also ultimately a failure, so Eliot chooses to cut the metaphor off right there.

He undresses in the dark, so it's not until he feels around for the blankets that his hand connects with the folded piece of paper on his pillow. Eliot switches on the lamp. _WAKE ME UP_ , the outside says. Each word is underlined individually in bold, businesslike strokes. Eliot unfolds the page like a greeting card, and inside it says, _I'm deadly serious, don't just let me sleep, don't tell me I looked so cute and peaceful or some fuckery like that. I will be so pissed at you if you don't wake me up when you get in. Yours-- Q._

_Mine_ , Eliot thinks, and as he slides into bed behind Quentin, hooking his arm over Quentin's waist and nuzzling his ear, it sets the pace of Eliot's heartbeat like a metronome –  _mine, mine, mine, mine_ . “Baby,” he whispers into Quentin's ear. “Wake up, sweet boy.” Quentin snuffles and stirs a little, and he lets out a soft groan that Eliot thinks is an objection, but then Quentin fumbles with Eliot's hand under the blanket until he finds it and covers it. “You wanted me to--” Eliot begins, and then that thought flies directly out of his head when Quentin pushes Eliot's hand firmly downward, his cock already straining upward to meet it.

Quentin's cock is faintly slippery with the specific texture of the pricey lube that Quentin likes (it has seaweed in it; Eliot's never felt that his sex life has suffered from a lack of seaweed prior to this, but then a lot of pretty objectively great things are in his life now that he didn't think he needed before Quentin, so what the hell, he'll wrap his dick up like sushi if that's how Quentin likes it), which strongly implies to Eliot that Quentin's been jerking off tonight, and good for him. “Guess what?” Quentin says, his voice a little sleep-muzzy, but his smile radiant as he nuzzles into the pillow and rocks up into Eliot's loose grip.

“Tell me,” Eliot says. He tightens his fingers just under the head of Quentin's cock and feels it fill out even further, blood-hot and smooth and slickened, and he knows he's grinning, too, pressing little kisses along Quentin's neck and under his jaw.

The noise Quentin lets out is definitely a groan this time, and definitely not an objection. “Eliot – I haven't come for over two weeks.  _Please_ .”

“You want me to make you come?” Eliot says, rubbing under and around the flare of Quentin's cockhead. Quentin whines his agreement, and a little belatedly, the full impact of his words sink in on Eliot. Quentin texted him a little before eight this evening. “You got hard earlier tonight,” Eliot says. “While you were touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and then, as though he thinks he needs an excuse, “I was bored, I guess?”

Eliot's onto more important issues, however. “But you didn't come.” Quentin makes a vaguely impatient noise, grinding as much as Eliot will let him against Eliot's hand. “You texted me. You  _waited for me_ .”

“Knew you'd make it worth it,” Quentin says, and that's an opinion that Eliot decides on the spot he'll either live up to or die trying.

He's so in love. He's so in love. He's not brave enough for this.

Eliot shoves that thought down into the darkness, because right now – right now, this,  _this_ he can do. He pulls away, ignoring Quentin's automatic noise of outrage, and drags Quentin onto his back, shoving the blankets out of the way so Quentin's body is fully exposed, and he crouches over Quentin, quieting his little noises with biting little kisses. When Eliot knows for sure he's won, when he feels Quentin relax back into the mattress and open his mouth, Eliot eases back enough to get a better look at him.

Quentin makes a little face of grudging tolerance under the examination. “Okay, I feel a little-- I don't know how much I like you staring at me,” he says.

“But I like it,” Eliot says. That's usually all it takes; Eliot can see interest bloom in the darkness of Quentin's flaring pupils. “I like this,” he adds, stroking firmly all the way up Quentin's cock. It is a nice cock – nothing fancy, nothing huge, but it suits Quentin; like the rest of Q's body, it's mid-sized and solid and symmetrical. There's something so satisfying about Quentin – about all of him, his face and his body and his cock, everything about him handsome in a way that's neutral but not bland. He's nothing Eliot would necessarily remember if they only met once, but Eliot doesn't think he's only being swayed by fondness. Quentin is a pleasure to rest his eyes on.

“Please,” Quentin says again, his hips rocking subtly with the rhythm of Eliot's hand. “Eliot, can you please--?” He hesitates, fumbling the words, unsure about them. Quentin is so, so in love with words, and yet he stumbles and he stammers and he hesitates; Eliot wonders how heavy Quentin's head gets with all the possibilities, how it must feel like shoving his arm into quicksand every time he has to find the right ones and pull them up from the depths.

“Please what?” Eliot says. “Shh, it's okay. Take a breath. Tell me what you need.”

Quentin takes a breath. “I need,” he says, and then he stops. Takes one more breath. “I need you to do what you want to me,” he says, clearly and carefully even though his voice quivers. He's so brave. He's so dear to Eliot. “You can take – you can have me. However you want.”

Eliot smiles. He rewards Quentin with a firm drag of his thumb over Quentin's slit, and also by leaning forward and kissing Quentin's forehead. Quentin shudders. “I will, sweet boy,” Eliot promises. “You're going to be so good, you're going to give me everything I want. Smile for me, okay?” Quentin does, hesitantly at first, then more genuinely, dimples and all, as he searches Eliot's eyes and likes whatever he finds there. “There's my boy,” Eliot praises. “Put your hands together, over your head.”

There's a slight pause, but it seems more like Quentin's overheated brain is trying to process the direction than like he's being balky. When he does move his arms, he seems unsure how to use his hands; he tries overlapping them, then holding one wrist with the opposite hand, before landing on lacing his fingers loosely together. Eliot really could give a damn which he chooses, so he just waits. When Quentin seems to settle on something comfortable, Eliot reaches over to the nightstand for more lube. “We're going to see if this overpriced shit is everything you say it is,” he tells Quentin conversationally as he coats more of it over Quentin's dick.

“Listen,” Quentin huffs, “have you seen your cock? I take that in my asshole,  _frequently_ .” It hasn't been quite so frequently as all that, not lately, but Eliot's not about to spoil the mood by pointing that out. “I think you can imagine why I prioritize-- oh, Jesus Christ, El,” he gasps when Eliot makes a tight cup out of his palm and rubs slippery circles around the head of Quentin's dick. “You might – wanna be careful, in case, in case I don't last--”

“You will,” Eliot says mildly. The truth is, it's really late and Eliot is already keyed up and so ready, and there is not going to be any edging happening tonight, or anything within a country mile of that. This is going to be quick and dirty and fucking intense, and Eliot wouldn't have it any other way.

Either because he's naturally helpful or because he's currently dumb with lust, Quentin's hands go for Eliot's waist while he's trying to position himself, and Eliot has to lightly slap one hand away before Quentin realizes that he was fully serious about that over-the-head thing. Eliot doesn't bother to stretch himself very much; Quentin's not particularly girthy, and he's positively dripping with lube by now, so it's fine, Eliot will be fine.

The choked-off noises Quentin makes as Eliot works himself down truly do offset most of the annoying discomfort, and the rest is bearable because Eliot knows it's temporary; he's always found the first penetration to be vaguely sucky no matter how it happens, but eventually his body gives up – gives in. It takes a minute, but only a minute; as Eliot repeats it in slow motion, pushing up and then letting Quentin's cock light him up as he slides back down, the burn becomes less acute first, and then something he looks forward to. The heat flares inside his body and radiates out to his skin, where he can feel the sweat bead up along his shoulders and the back of his neck, and he twists his hips a little as he screws himself back down, chasing the flames.

“Eliot,” Quentin cries out raggedly, and Eliot can feel Q's thighs bunching and releasing underneath his ass, but Quentin has no leverage at all, no real options but to watch Eliot work them both closer to the moment of truth. “Can I – please, let me, can I touch you?”

“No, baby,” Eliot says, a touch apologetically, because the boy really does look a bit wild with need. Eliot shifts the hand that he's been bracing lightly on Quentin's ribs for balance, sliding it toward Quentin's armpit and up the exposed inside of his arm. “Here,” Eliot says by way of compromise, because he's not in it for the cruelty, “you can bend your knees, okay? Get your feet – yeah,” he sighs happily when Quentin doesn't need it explained in detail. He plants his feet firmly on the mattress and now he can anchor himself well enough to thrust up into Eliot, the way he couldn't while lying flat.

It's good – it was good before, but it's better now, the combination of gravity and his own strength and Quentin's, and Eliot's had good and bad experiences with bottoming, but this is  _good_ . He feels like the electrical zip of his own nerves has been dialed up into the red, and Quentin's hips where they're pressed between his thighs and Quentin's chest under his hands and Quentin's cock sliding through him are all separate lightning strikes, generating a crackle and a hiss, exposed and overloaded wires of sensation. He isn't even making decisions when he reaches for his own cock, stripping it roughly without any conscious analysis of how close he is or how soon he wants to come.  _Out of his head_ isn't usually Eliot's primary goal when it comes to sex – it can feel like it treads too close to  _out of control_ – but he's starting to get the appeal.

He has to let go of his cock when he starts to come, because there's sweat on his forehead and dripping into his eyes, and he has to wipe it away because all that matters is seeing his come arc upward and then land on Quentin's flushed skin. Quentin only lasts another few thrusts; Eliot can feel Quentin pumping inside him before his own cock has stopped leaking with the aftershocks.

They separate carefully, both of them looking a little startled by – what? Nothing about it should be surprising – the mess and the ache and the hunger, even the little edge of power-play, it's all part of their repertoire already, but it feels. Different. Eliot can't quite put his finger on how. “Check-in?” Quentin says throatily, splayed out bonelessly while Eliot props himself up on his arm and tests how it feels to move around a bit.

“Fine,” Eliot says automatically. “I mean – good, I'm good. You?”

“Sleepy,” Quentin says, smiling as his eyes close. “Or maybe just blissed-out, not sure if I know the difference right now.”

“You liked that?” Eliot's not sure why he's asking. His chances of a response in the negative are...in the negative. He just wants to hear it, though; that damn praise kink.

“I liked that,” Quentin says. “I mean – El, I always like it with you. I wish....”

The silence drops like a stone when he doesn't finish. Eliot feels a kick of anxiety under his ribs and he tries to shovel it under with logic, but he's only barely managing to sound casual when he says, “Wish what?”

Quentin's silent for another beat, then shakes his head slightly and says, “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Well, which is it?” Eliot says, a little tartly. “Nothing or never mind? Because they're different.”

“Okay, let's not-- Let's not,” Quentin says with finality.

And he has a point. Eliot leans over and turns Quentin's face with two fingers on his chin so that he can kiss Quentin's forehead lightly. “I need to clean up,” he says. Quentin nods.

There's nothing romantic about the post-barebacking process – or at least there shouldn't be, and there isn't on Eliot's end. But he finds the second half.... He doesn't know, intimate at the very least. It's meditative, almost, taking his time to wash Quentin's body off and then dry it, then putting down a second towel over the wet spot where Eliot was lying before and locating the shoved-off sheet and blankets to shake out and pull back over them. He likes the way Quentin just lets him do it by now, goes soft and pliant and lets himself be handled, and the way he's still a little damp when Eliot draws him back into his arms.

Instead of contentedly little-spooning, Quentin wriggles himself over so both of them have an arm draped around the other, and he nuzzles close enough that Eliot can stretch his neck just slightly and fit his chin on the top of Quentin's head. It feels good. He really should say.... That thing he should say.

“Feels good,” he says instead. Quentin makes the sound that a question mark makes, and Eliot specifies, “Us. Being – like this. It feels good.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. Then after a minute, he says, “You know, you could.... Even if I'm having – more of an off-stretch – you know, if we're not.... You could still come over sometimes. Sleep over, I mean. Here.”

“I don't want--” Eliot starts, but that isn't what he means. Not really. “I worry about seeming – whatever. Pushy,” he says instead.

“No,” Quentin says. “I – you wouldn't, wouldn't seem. That way to me. Sometimes it's hard for me to settle in at night. Mostly when, mostly when I'm alone.”

Eliot turns that around and around in his head, stroking faint circles over Quentin's back as he does. “Need someone to tuck you in and sing you to sleep?” Eliot asks, and it comes out lightly, but he hopes it doesn't – hopes Quentin knows he's not – laughing.

“Would you?” Quentin says, matching Eliot's tone perfectly. “If I did need it?”

“Sure I would,” Eliot says. “That happens to be well within my skill-set.”

“I know,” Quentin says. “I mean, isn't everything?”

“I like to think I'm well-rounded,” Eliot agrees. He draws Quentin closer as a happy side-effect of petting his hair firmly, and he says, “I'm here to help you, sweet boy. You just have to let me know what you need.”

Quentin kisses the nearest spot on Eliot's arm and then says with surprising bitterness, “I hate asking. I already ask you for so much – we all do. I don't want – don't want you to burn out.”

“Hey,” Eliot says. “Listen. I know I'm – frazzled sometimes, or not as patient as I could be, or – whatever, things like that, but that's not. Yeah, it can be a lot, but all the mommy-blogs assure me it's extremely normal to feel like it's a lot.” Quentin huffs a slight chuckle, the heat of his breath tickling Eliot's chest. “You can't protect me from knowing that you need stuff, or even just – want stuff. I want you to want stuff. I – want you to want me.”

“I do,” Quentin says. “I do, always. I love you, El.”

“I love you, too,” Eliot says, figuring if he just – does it quick and doesn't look straight at it, then – it's like getting a flu shot, barely painful at all if you just. Turn your face away and don't watch. “And, and, uh.” God, he sounds like Quentin; he's getting all scrambled and distracted by the muffled screaming in his head, this is probably not normal, but there's no way out of it now. He takes a breath – that's what he'd advise Quentin, take a breath – and he says, “And I know you need space sometimes, but I don't want you to be lonely. So you just – you need to tell me, okay? You're more than capable of letting me know when you're horny, so this shouldn't be that different, letting me know when you need whatever else you need.”

“It is different,” Quentin says. “I can't just ask you to drop everything and come – I don't know. Cuddle me.”

“You literally can,” Eliot says. “You can, that's what I'm here for. You think I'm just for decoration?”

Something quick and shuddery moves through Quentin's body. Eliot tightens his arms and hopes it was laughter. “A profound philosophical question,” Quentin says. “What are any of us for?”

“Each other,” Eliot says. “Or so _The Good Place_ has tried to teach me.”

“Yeah, I gotta watch that sometime,” Quentin says. “I hear it's good.”

It's a weird, random note to end on, but also – it's late. They're tired. Eliot strokes Quentin's hair in a lulling rhythm, and bit by bit, the panicky screaming emanating from Eliot's brain stem settles to a dull roar, growing slow and faint at the same pace that Quentin's breathing does, and then they can both finally sleep.

 

Months of habit wake Eliot up at an unreasonably early hour, and years of habit make him look at the man sleeping in his arms and feel vaguely like he needs to get the fuck out of here before things get awkward.

The thought is, in and of itself, awkward. This isn't some ill-considered hookup he's thinking about ditching; this is Quentin.

The Fillory alarm clock on Quentin's dresser says it's just after seven. The drool at the corner of Quentin's mouth says he's still very deeply gone; Eliot wipes it away with his knuckles, smiling fondly. Eliot's sweet boy, or so Eliot likes to think.

But it's Eliot, really, who feels.... Quentin keeps him so damn back-footed, Quentin strips him of all the tips and tricks and tactics Eliot thought he'd taught himself over the years, Quentin makes him feel like he doesn't know a goddamn thing about anything that matters. Sure, Eliot is bright and he's spent his life hungry for the passwords to get him into something bigger and better, so he taught himself about fashion and art and wine and – relationships, he did think he understood a lot about what makes them go and what makes them stop, even if he only ever used that knowledge to manipulate. He thought he knew so goddamn much about the world.

_A child's idea of the perfect boyfriend_ , Quentin said, and – maybe? That's exactly what Quentin is, maybe? Wasn't childhood the last time Eliot had it in him to hope for someone – for a friend, for someone who listens, who takes Eliot's side, who _tells all his friends_ , how impossible did _that_ concept once feel? A man who's smart and handsome, good and true, who doesn't keep secrets and gives Eliot spontaneous smiles and infinite trust and misses him when they're apart--

How old was Eliot, the first time he wished on a broken eyelash or a birthday candle or a blown dandelion that he'd find someone, just one person out there in the wide world who would put a hand on him with nothing but kindness?

He can't remember. He does remember exactly how old he was when he stopped.

Eliot pushes it all away. He's just being moody, and he doesn't have time for it today; he has to get home and get the ball rolling on life. He can schedule a therapy appointment to deal with this shit, but breakfast is every day, and it's on him.

He disentangles himself from Quentin, and Quentin doesn't notice; Eliot gives his hair a little kiss anyway, just because.

On his way out, Eliot feeds the angry cat who's trying to trip him, and he throws out the old coffee and starts a new pot for Quentin, and while he's at it he loads the dishwasher with all the random crap Quentin throws in the sink for no good reason. Just because the man lives alone doesn't mean he has to live like a goblin.

Redressed in yesterday's work clothes, Eliot feels a little like a goblin, and not the sexy Bowie kind. Breakfast is the highest priority, but he's not fit to make breakfast until he gets a shower; he does his best to creep silently across his bedroom floor, but when he turns the bathroom light on, it's enough to wake Margo. She turns over onto her back, and that also wakes Ted, so today is happening right now, apparently.

“Are you just coming home?” Margo says, dragging the back of her hand over her eyes and blinking in the room's lopsided light.

“Yeah,” he says, wondering if he should've – texted her? Let her know what he was doing? It was so late, he assumed it didn't matter, but at least in theory someone could've been worried about him. Though Eliot supposes he's not the only one capable of texting, in that case. “I slept over there.”

“I know why you sleep at Dad's house,” Ted says, the sleepiness in his voice coming through as world-weariness.

“You do, huh?” Eliot says, ignoring Margo's snort of laughter.

“Yeah,” Ted says. “It's so you two can kiss each other.”

Eliot kicks off his shoes under the bed and takes a second to straighten out the blanket that's gotten twisted over both of them. “Ugh, you're so smart,” he says indulgently. “I can't get away with anything around here.”

“You kiss him too much,” Ted says, trying to screw up his face disapprovingly, but spoiling the effect by turning it into a dimply grin.

“What about Margo, do I kiss her too much, too?” Eliot asks, bending down to plant three quick kisses on Margo's mouth while she bats at his shoulder and Ted yelps _Yes!_ through giggles that turn into hiccupy peals of laughter when Eliot leans across and kisses up his arm a few times before pretending to gnaw on it. “What do you want with your eggs?” he asks when they've all gotten the early-morning giddiness out of their system.

“Pancakes!” Ted says

“Gross, no,” Eliot says. “Today is not giant-plate-of-carbs day. Today is eggs, so you want peppers and beans and salsa, or you want spinach and bacon and tomatoes, or you want apples and mushrooms?”

“Apples and mushrooms and cheese!” Ted demands. “And then brownies!”

“You're killing me,” Eliot says. “You think I'm gonna give you brownies at breakfast? Since when is that a thing?”

“Today?” Ted says, and well, you have to give him points for effort.

A few points. “One piece of cinnamon toast. My final offer.” He holds out his hand and Ted shakes it solemnly. “What?” Eliot says to Margo, catching her smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing,” Margo says, stretching out luxuriously. “You just look – especially well-kissed this morning.”

Eliot huffs at the affront to his dignity. He is _Eliot Hanson-Waugh_ , and he doesn't look any special type of way just because he got laid last night; he gets laid lots of nights. But abruptly he remembers – that thing he's kind of been very explicitly not remembering all morning –

Not just one thing. He remembers _I love you, too_ , but he also remembers holding Quentin against his chest, tucked under his chin, and he remembers that Q doesn't sleep as easily when he's alone, and he remembers dust motes floating through the daylight in a room he's never been in, at the top of the stairs where he holds a purring cat named after a monster who's worth loving, and he remembers waking up looking at the face of a clock and wondering how much more time....

“El?” Margo says. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “Or I will be. After a shower and coffee.” He kisses her once more before he gets off the bed and shuts himself in the bathroom.

He goes through the motions in a strange, gray, in-between state – showers and brushes his teeth and shaves, and he doesn't forget, but he wouldn't say he remembers anymore, either. He just – is. Last night he went to work, and when he came home he had sex with his boyfriend and they talked a little, said nice, boyfriend-y things to each other and agreed that they should spend more time together, and then he slept for about four hours, and now he's thinking about his chances of getting a power nap in between making breakfast and getting ready for the matinee at one, and it's – normal, this is normal. This is what a life looks like, what being a grown-up looks like, and Eliot – won, he won the game, he outlasted everyone who tried to break him while they called it fixing him, and now he has relationships on his own terms and a family on his own terms and everything is – pretty good. He's as happy as people get, short of joining a cult.

He's not freaking out. Should he be freaking out? No, right? Because this is normal, and good, and it belongs to him.

He can have all this because it belongs to him, and because he is – normal and good, and so it makes sense and it's right, and he deserves this, _after everything you've been through, you deserve everything you want...._

It's Eliot's if he wants it. It's Eliot's right now. He's so... _loved_ , and he doesn't have to do anything, he just _is_ , it's just real.

Why doesn't it feel real?

Eliot closes his eyes and his reflection goes dark. Everything goes dark, and it gets darker the farther down he goes, all the way, all the way down.

He doesn't know what's all the way at the bottom of the stairs, or if the stairs go down forever into the dark.

But that's a lie. He does know.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He can't – he can't do this. He doesn't have time.

So Eliot just...doesn't. He gets dressed instead, and makes breakfast, and he's happy – he tells himself that over and over, so that he remembers – how happy he is with the life that he has now. With the person that he is now.

After he's helped Ted pick out his clothes for the play (Ted prefers Margo for almost every possible purpose, except that he seems unconvinced that she's capable of understanding the critera by which shirts are matched to ties; he is obviously incorrect, but Eliot gloats about it anyway), he convinces everyone that he wants to lie down for a mid-morning nap. He leaves Margo and Ted setting up a chess game, and he shuts himself in the bedroom and sits on the foot of his bed and just--

Freaks out? Is he having a panic attack? It's not like the other one – he doesn't forget where he is, he just can't – believe it, exactly. He's here, in his bedroom, in his condo, he's staring at his own hands wearing his own rings, Eliot _knows_ all this, so why doesn't any of it feel real? He feels like an alien, or like a ghost – like if he opens the door again he'll see that decades or centuries have passed, leaving his home a dilapidated ruin. Obviously that's crazy, and Eliot's not – crazy. He just. Isn't really here. Doesn't belong here.

_Dissociative episode_ , his brain supplies helpfully, and – maybe? Maybe. He should probably – do something about this. Talk to someone. It's the Sunday before Christmas, he can't call Adiyodi's office. He doesn't know who else to tell, or what he expects them to do about it.

He thinks it's something he just has to wait out.

So he does. Or he tries.

He's surprised when Quentin comes into the room – is it noon already? It is. That seems weird. “Are you ready to go?” Quentin asks. There's no one in the bedroom but the two of them, but he's whispering like they're in a hospital room or a morgue.

“Is your friend here?” Eliot says.

“Poppy, no, she had to cancel.” Eliot's relieved, even though he bought a twelve-dollar ticket for her that's just scrap paper now. He didn't really want to entertain strangers today. “She's, uh. Sick. Morning sickness.”

“She's pregnant?” Eliot doesn't know why that's a surprise. He knows fuck-all about Poppy's life; why shouldn't she be pregnant?

“For the moment,” Quentin says dryly. “For another couple of weeks, anyway.”

“Oh.” _Going through life stuff_ , Quentin said. “That – sucks, I guess. Having that hang over your head all through the holidays.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Quentin agrees. “God, it's been a hell of a year, huh? I'm going to go with her. It's Monday the sixth, in Indianapolis. In case you want to put that on the calendar or anything.”

“Why?” Eliot says before he thinks about how that's probably not the, whatever. Decent, human response. “I mean, why isn't the father going with her? That's not you, right?”

Judging by Quentin's glare, the attempt to lighten the mood was not successful. He doesn't even bother to acknowledge it, just says, “I don't know, I guess – I'm good at stuff like this? It's not my first time; Julia was raped in college, and I was – you know, I was the one who was with her, for the abortion and during the disciplinary hearing and just – I was there for all of it. It's funny, but. James is so good at, like, being alive in the world, he's good at basically everything, but he kind of breaks down when things are really hard. I'm – the other way around, I guess. A lot of things magically seem to get easier for me when someone else needs help.”

Now that he thinks about it, that makes sense to Eliot. He's never seen Q as focused and organized as he was when Carla was dying; it was once they had a new normal in place that the cracks and wobbles started to show up. Great, the fuel that seems to make Quentin function is pain. That's the worst superpower in the world. “Well, she's lucky to have a friend like you,” Eliot says.

The show has been open for a week, but today is the Friends and Family show, so it has a little of the flavor of an opening night. It's nice; Eliot is proud of all his factory girls gamely managing their crinolines and dancing in cheap boots with no arch support. At intermission he finds Harriet and tells her, “Everyone looks perfect, congratulations,” and he repeats the signs he learned from Youtube along with his words.

Harriet gives him the lopsided smile that he suspects she gives everyone who totally butchers ASL for her sake, and she says, “Thank you. Are you still free after the holidays? We have a whole basement full of donations that haven't even been unpacked. I don't know what they'll look like, but I know they'll need a lot of help, if any of them can even be saved at all.”

“I love an adventure,” Eliot says.

He meets a bunch of other people, wives and husbands and boyfriends and children and parents of cast members he's barely had a chance to meet, but it's a condensed period of socializing with built-in topics of conversation, so it's fine, Eliot can do it on battery-saver mode, giving out nothing but canned compliments and canned smiles, and every time he shakes someone's hand he feels like he's piloting his body from a distance like a drone, but everyone acts like everything is fine.

If Eliot has one talent in life, it's acting like everything is fine.

Everything's fine.

There's punch and cookies in the lobby after the show, and Eliot hugs half the cast, and the factory girls, predictably, fawn over Teddy. It's getting a little repetitive, and Eliot finds his attention wandering, drawn toward the open doors.

He passes through one set, into the auditorium, and all the lights are on, but the way they angle toward the stage gives the back of the house a comfortable dimness. Eliot takes a seat close to the control booth and lets his eyes travel across all of it, orchestra pit to apron to catwalk. The Wellspring is a beautiful old theater, but it's not the scrollwork around the boxes or the mosaic corners above the proscenium that capture Eliot's imagination. He likes the slight shabbiness of the scuffed carpets and the worn armrests. He likes that the place feels so well-used. So well-loved for so many years.

Who would Eliot be if he'd never discovered the theater?

Who would he be if he'd never left it?

Profound philosophical questions, Quentin might say. And Eliot's not a philosopher; he never was.

And speak of the Devil. Quentin comes and sits beside him, but he doesn't have any appreciation, aesthetic or nostalgic, for the theater itself, so all he's looking at is Eliot's face. “Did you have a good time?” Quentin finally asks softly. “You seem...tired.”

“I was up late last night,” Eliot says.

“Yeah,” Quentin says with a game little chuckle, although Eliot hadn't really been offering it as a joke. “Well, um. Hey, I wanted, I wanted to say. About last night.” Eliot turns to look at him then, and finally registers the lines of concern around and between Quentin's pretty eyes. Instinctively, Eliot puts his hand over Quentin's wrist on the armrest between them, and Quentin breathes in, apparently drawing some steadiness from it. “If anything we did or, or anything we said – if it felt a little too, um. Too intense for you? I just wanted to say, that's okay. You know, I – I get overloaded too, sometimes. I don't think we have to – judge each other, or ourselves for that.”

“Noted,” Eliot says. “I mean. Thank you. And I did have a good time – today and last night, too. I'm just having a weird, spacey day. It's not about you.”

Quentin reaches across and pats Eliot's hand. “Okay. Ready to go? I think I accidentally promised someone pizza for dinner.”

“Was it Margo?” Eliot guesses.

Quentin heads to the door, and Eliot follows him, held by the hand like a kid in traffic. Obviously he does need to be dragged along through life today, but doesn't everyone have a day like that every once in a while? And he _was_ up late last night, and he _is_ tired, so that probably explains almost everything else.

“Eliot,” he hears as he's almost out the door, a deep voice that takes full advantage of the acoustics. Eliot turns, his hand slipping out of Quentin's. Dr. Loria is walking up the aisle toward them, champagne glass full of fruit punch in his hand. “I'm so glad you were able to come,” he says, putting out his hand when he's close enough.

“I've been looking forward to it,” Eliot says, shaking his hand. “My whole family has. Idri--” He's supposed to call him Idri, right? Eliot thinks that was said at one point. He hopes. “--this is Quentin Coldwater, Ted's – Ted's biological father. Quentin, this is Dr. Loria. He's on the board here, and he's the vice principal at Ted's school.”

“Oh, right!” Quentin says brightly, shaking Idri's hand. “From the Halloween party. It was so lucky that you two ran into each other like that; Eliot really loved working on these costumes. He kind of colonized half my apartment with the project, but I think, you know, everyone really needs a hobby that isn't about their kid, right? And he's so talented.”

“That's what Harriet says, too,” Idri says. “And I never, ever argue with Harriet. You were a very lucky find indeed, Eliot. I was sorry not to see you at the cast party, though.”

Eliot clears his throat; he's very _conscious_ of his throat right now, as that seems to be where Idri's gaze goes when it flicks downward, more than once. “Yeah, that was a shame,” Eliot says. “But I had to be in New York last weekend, so. Next time.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Idri says. “Merry Christmas, Eliot. Mr. Coldwater.”

Quentin waits just long enough to make sure that Idri has moved on, rejoining the party in the lobby, before turning back to Eliot and saying, “ _Oh, come on._ ”

“What?” Eliot protests. “It's a party, I can't talk to people at parties?”

“No, I mean, you can do whatever you want,” Quentin says in the same obnoxiously lofty tone he always uses when he says that. “He's good looking.”

“Stop,” Eliot says.

“I literally can't.” Quentin, thank the Dark Lord for his generous and surprisingly self-assured nature when it comes to these things, is smiling at him. “You're blushing; I literally, physically _cannot_ not make fun of you.”

Appalling. Slanderous. “I am not _blushing_ ,” Eliot scoffs.

“I didn't even think that was your type, actually,” Quentin muses. Eliot questions him further with his eyebrow, and Quentin says, “He doesn't exactly look like he'd, um. Give up control that easily.”

Eliot straightens his spine and says with full dignity, “Sometimes I don't mind having to earn it first.”

“Good to know,” Quentin says. “ _Had to_ be in New York?”

“I think you misunderstood me,” Eliot says. “I very clearly said I _had the opportunity_ to be in New York last weekend.”

“Oh, right,” Quentin says. “That was so clear, how could I have gotten confused. Anyone else you want to make eyes at, gorgeous, or can we go?”

“I don't know,” Eliot says, slipping his hand back in Quentin's. “Tell me more about this pizza.”

Everything's fine.

Everything's fine.

Everything's fine.

 

These sneaky harlots that Eliot lives with wait until the night of the twenty-third to spring it on him, after Ted's bedtime when the three of them are sitting around the table with their phones out trying to plan their lives, which turns out to be a good 90% of the definition of parenting. All too painfully casually, with his eyes riveted to his screen, Quentin says, “I checked and there's a seven o'clock service and an eleven o'clock, so I thought, definitely seven? It seems like it's more for families, so--”

“Excuse me, hi? Back up,” Eliot says. “Explain.”

Quentin and Margo exchange looks, which is how Eliot knows he's been deliberately fucked. “Well, um,” Quentin says. “Ted – um, Ted asked Margo if we were going to church, and Margo talked to me, and I, I did some research?”

It's actually too easy, and therefore unsatisfying, to make Quentin feel guilty and uncomfortable, so Eliot turns his attention toward Margo. “So this is something the two of you worked out, what, behind my back?”

“No, I just _discussed_ it with him, because I knew you'd be a little bitch about it and I didn't want to talk to you,” she says coolly. “It's still our decision.”

“Oh, good,” Eliot says. “Well, I've decided that I'm not fucking going to _church_ , so let's move on.”

“You know, um, sweetheart?” Quentin says hesitantly, and already Eliot knows that this is not going to work out well for him. “Ted asked because he, he does want to go. And I understand how you feel--” Eliot snorts. “I mean, I think I kind of understand? But this – not everyone's experience was the same as yours, and Ted, it wouldn't be anything like that for Ted. It's a Unitarian church, which is the same kind, the same kind I went to as a kid? And it's completely non-dogmatic, and there's not going to be anything about sin or hell or whatever, and they're open and affirming, nobody's going to – judge Ted or make him feel bad about his family. There's just going to be Christmas songs and probably some candles and – you know, other kids to play with, and they'll talk about love and whatever?”

“Well, it sounds just marvelous,” Eliot says. He knows he's fulfilling Margo's prophecy, he's being extremely bitchy about this, but he just. He knows he's been boxed in, he has absolutely no grounds for objection, and that makes him just. Want to _bite_ someone. “Have a good time.”

Quentin and Margo look at each other again. “Okay, passive-aggressive looks so tacky on you,” Margo says. “Just – tell us what you want to do.”

Right, because that was a factor here at some point. Eliot takes a breath and then says, as calmly as he can, “If Q wants to go to church, nobody's stopping him. And if he wants to take Ted, I'm not going to-- That's fine. He's Ted's father, whatever, they can spend Christmas Eve doing – whatever. I'm not going.”

“I think what Ted wants--” Quentin begins.

And Eliot likes to think of himself as a semi-patient man, or at least relatively adept at the type of process-heavy conversations that a three-person co-parenting team has turned out to require, but he has his limits, he's _allowed_ to set an occasional limit, right? “I think I do a lot for Ted,” Eliot bites out, doing his damndest to suck the anger back down his throat and just let out the logical parts. “And I think I don't need it thrown in my face if there are some things I can't do, or even just won't do. Because there are sure as shit things that the two of you haven't done that I have. Right? So if this is something that you two want done, _do it_ , but I'm staying home.”

“Okay,” Quentin says. “I'm sorry, you're right, I shouldn't pressure you like that. I'm sorry.” Eliot nods.

He spends the night at Quentin's, and Quentin tries to apologize again, but Eliot kisses him silent, because it's decided, it's over. It's whatever. They'll probably have a nice time.

Seven o'clock splits up Eliot's supper plans a bit awkwardly, but he can adapt. He feeds Ted a ham sandwich before they leave for church, just to tide him over, and that gives Eliot a good hour and a half to work on the food for that night. The sweet-and-sour meatballs are just doing their thing in the Crock Pot, so no issues there, and now Eliot can take his time chopping cheese and salami and vegetables without risking his fingers, and put together a tray with some presentation. Not that any of his goblins are likely to notice, but Eliot will.

Margo steals a slice of prosciutto right out from under him, and he threatens her with his paring knife held in classic slasher-movie position. She just grins at him and calls out to Ted, “Go over to your dad's and tell him to get his ass in gear.”

“Only don't tell him that,” Eliot shouts. “What's the rule?”

“No cussing outside the house!” Ted shouts back, already pealing out for the front door at a run, his shiny church shoes clomping on the hardwood floors.

“And that includes your dad's place, he doesn't like it!” Eliot tries to call after him, but he's long gone. Eliot sighs, and then he has a chance to look Margo over. She's wearing a plain red sheath dress and a brown shearling coat he's never seen before. “You look like the baddest bitch at the PTA meeting,” he tells her.

She flips him off, but seems to take it as mostly a compliment, which it mostly was. “Hey,” she says, digging into her purse, “I wanted – since we have a minute, I'm giving you your present now. That way if you don't like it or you don't want it, you don't have to act nice in front of everyone else, you can just tell me to fuck off.”

He kind of knows what's in the little box as soon as she hands it to him, because it's the kind of little box that only has so many uses. It's wrapped in the leftover bits of the sepia-tinted Santa Claus wrapping paper they used for half of everything else under the tree, and Eliot judges her silently for that, a little, but mostly because – he doesn't want to get too weird and emotional about all this, right in front of his crudites.

It's white gold, and the outside of the band is smooth, but one part of it is wider than the other part, so it has kind of the silhouette of a signet ring. It's engraved twice inside the band, an alpha and omega on one side, and then across from that it says E+M. Eliot turns it around between his fingers, trying to decide how to – what to say.

“So, look,” Margo says, because of course Margo's not going to wait forever for him to get his shit together, “I know-- Things have changed. I know. We're not teenagers anymore, and I'm not-- It's not just us now; our lives are like, a fucking group project. So if you feel weird wearing it, or if you think it implies something that you don't – really feel anymore, I totally get that, and I won't be offended. I just want you to keep it, though, even if you don't wear it. Like a memento. I mean – for almost ten years, we pretty much only had each other, and that got us through pretty much everything. So you can just. Keep it to remember all that by, if you want.”

“I think I can remember on my own,” Eliot says gently, sliding the ring on. It fits perfectly. He can see her shoulders sink just a little as she releases some tension, and he draws her close and kisses the top of her head.

He could kind of stand there holding Margo against him forever, except that it's only a few seconds until there are door noises from the hallway and Ted shouting, “Mom, we're ready!”

“Your entourage awaits you,” Eliot says, releasing her with another kiss to her hair. “Go. Be merry and love Jesus.”

“You're really being a dick about this,” she says.

“I know,” he says. “Hey, he won't fit in with his peers if he doesn't end up in therapy talking about what a dick his stepfather was. I'm just trying to socialize him.”

Margo pats his cheek and says, “I like him feral. And I'm his favorite, so you're kinda fucked.”

“You kiss the Virgin Mary with that mouth, Catholic School?” Eliot says, turning her by the shoulders and shoving her lightly in the general direction of the door. “Go, I'm pretty sure church isn't the kind of event you're supposed to be fashionably late to.”

Alone in the house, Eliot puts _Dreamgirls_ on his phone and finishes the tray before getting down to brass tacks. He's making Manhattans, but _fancy Christmas_ Manhattans, and it's been awhile since he hand-mixed and stirred his own syrup, but this one is fully worth it, filling the condo with the spicy scents of grated ginger and anise and cardamom. Everything is wrapped and lit up and stacked and plated and bubbling, and Eliot hums along with Love You I Do as he decants the syrup into a cute jam jar, and – fuck it, not half bad, for a Christmas he cobbled together through sheer desperation and doggedness? It all came out – not perfect, he's not going to start his own lifestyle blog anytime soon, but pretty goddamn good.

He hopes his father and Melinda are _miserable_. That's probably not in the spirit of the season, but fuck a spirit of the season anyway.

Church, he guesses, was nice; everyone comes home happy, anyway, although not a lot of details are shared, even by Ted, who has either been warned not to annoy Eliot or else is just even more easily distracted by gingersnaps and cheese slices than Eliot anticipated. Quentin wants to see his ring right away, and Eliot searches his face but doesn't see anything but pleasure and pride – how did Eliot find the one man in the whole universe who seems fundamentally and sincerely unbothered by the Margo of it all?

“What?” Quentin asks him with a smile when he notices the way Eliot is staring at him.

“Nothing,” Eliot says, then puts a hand on his neck and draws him close for a soft kiss under the golden lights on the Christmas tree, which they can do without commentary from the cheap seats, because Ted is somewhere else changing into his pajamas and brushing his teeth.

They all watch _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ , and Teddy makes it almost to the end before he falls asleep in Margo's lap. Once he's been put to bed, Eliot puts together the Manhattans while Quentin and Margo fill the stockings and add the Santa presents to tomorrow's pile. “So it's decided,” Eliot says, once they've all had a taste, “next year a lot more of our family traditions need to involve bourbon, right?”

“I mean, that sounds really unhealthy?” Quentin says, taking another sip. “But also this is so fucking good, Jesus.”

“Everything you love about me, right?” Eliot says. “Dangerous and irresistible.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “It's so cute that that's still your self-image,” he says. “You put up _handmade snowflake ornaments_ this year. You bought a Christmas stocking for my cat.”

“I can be dangerous and still _thoughtful_ ,” Eliot says with dignity.

Margo even helps wrap up the leftover food and put it away, which is a damn Christmas miracle, or maybe she really did find religion, and she kisses both of them before she goes to bed. “Want another drink?” Eliot offers.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, “but not quite as strong as the last one.”

“Sugar water with a splish of vermouth, coming up,” Eliot says.

They take their drinks and retreat into the wintry forest – or at least they duck behind the tree and tuck themselves into the window seat, legs bent up and pressed knee-to-knee. “You know, this is where I first saw you,” Eliot says, nodding to the window. It's hard to see anything in the dark but their own reflections, but Quentin glances out anyway. “Bambi and I watched you move in. Well, we were watching in the hopes of spotting particularly hot movers, but you were there, too.”

Quentin huffs a little laugh. “Admittedly, I'm no hot mover.”

“But you have your charms,” Eliot says.

“Can we talk again about church?” Quentin says.

“Do we have to?”

“I'd like to. I'd like to take Ted back.”

Eliot takes a drink and gathers his thoughts. “I don't understand why this matters to you so much. You don't even believe in this stuff.”

“It comes as a surprise to me, too,” Quentin admits. “I don't know, I've just been thinking about – how much I liked it when I was little? I liked the music and the stories, and the – I guess, community? Knowing all those people, and having people know me and say hello whenever we got there. And I guess I believe.... Well, it was kind of disappointing when I got older and realized that love wasn't actually the most powerful force in the universe, because – it really felt like that should be true. But I think I believe that – wanting it to be true – is. For most of us, that's the most powerful force in our lives, right? Wanting to be loved. And I want Ted to have...so much love that he can't not believe in it. And so maybe this is part of that.”

Doesn't leave Eliot a lot of room to argue. He leans his head against the wall and looks out the window at the starlike spray of lights emanating from the building across the street and hung from the streetlamps in between. “Maybe,” he admits. “I just. I can't, Q. I want to tell you maybe someday, but. I don't know.”

“I understand,” Quentin says, so heartbreakingly sincere. “Eliot, I know it – it hurt you in ways it never hurt me. And I would never ask you to – re-injure yourself, for any reason. You can be involved as much or as little as you want. Not at all, if that's what you want. It's completely up to you.”

It's Christmas Eve, and it's dark and silent, and there's an open door. It gets darker the further you go down the stairs, and Eliot doesn't know how far down it goes, but he knows what's at the bottom, and it's been – thirteen years since he's been there. He won't ever be brave enough to go down alone. But he's not alone.

“Can I – tell you something?” Eliot says.

“Anything,” Quentin says.

“This is-- I never have. Talked about this. Bambi knows a few pieces of it, but – not the whole thing.” Quentin reaches over and touches Eliot's knee, warm and kind, and – if he can't go down now, like this, then he can't do it ever.

His original plan was not to do it ever, but. He wants to be braver. Brave enough.

“Okay.” Everything's fine. Everything's fine. Take a breath. “One, two, three, go. When I was fourteen, there was a boy I prayed would die, and then he died.” It sounds absurd even to Eliot, hearing it out loud, and he laughs at himself. “It's stupid. I know. But he was my-- He used to beat me up. I mean, plenty of people did, but Logan was different. Usually when kids picked on me, it was – whatever, basically performance art. They'd mess up something I was carrying, or knock me down, or. I don't know, whatever. But Logan was – some kind of psychopath, I have no idea what the fuck his problem was. He was mean, and he didn't just like showing off what a big man he was to his friends. He liked to – hurt people. He was....” Eliot shakes his head a little, because there's no point to this. Quentin's an imaginative guy, he can figure it out, and it's not a story about Logan anyway. Not really. That part is whatever. “So I used to pray for his death, and I suppose that's not very admirable, but it didn't seem to be doing him any harm. And then he was...hit by a bus, and he died. And I was there. I saw it hit him head-on, and – it threw his body off his bike. There was. All this blood, all the way down the road, this – long streak of blood. I tried not to look at his body, but I couldn't stop staring at the blood.”

“Jesus,” Quentin says. “I'm so sorry, El, that sounds terrifying.”

He nods briefly. “It kind of fucked me up. I mean, I started out from a pretty fucked-up place, but that really – got in my head somehow. I started having nightmares, almost every night. Of the accident, and of – of going to Hell, because I killed him. Which obviously I didn't, I'm not Carrie. But I was-- It was a really bad year for me. I got the puberty fairy a little late, and that was the year that I really started figuring out some things that I had successfully avoided thinking about for most of my life. So suddenly my body's a disaster area, and I'm definitely going to Hell anyway, and I had this new stepmother who hated me – you have no idea how much Jeanette hated me, and she was a real fucking psycho herself, quite frankly – and now I have some kind of trauma shit happening, and I just. They thought I was possessed or something. _I_ thought I was possessed or something. I couldn't sleep without these screaming nightmares, and I started having these meltdowns at school. Panic attacks, I guess, but that's not what anyone called them, because _panic attacks_ are what people with therapists have; on the farm you just have _fits_. I mean, in all honesty I can almost sympathize. It's not like they had any idea what to do with me. They were probably – trying to help, in their way. Well, my dad was, anyway. Fuck Jeanette.”

Fuck both of them, honestly, but. This one time, he does think his dad was – pretty worried. He seemed it, anyway.

“So, um.” Take a breath. Everything's fine. “The doctor gave me these sleeping pills. And one night, while I was pretty knocked out, they got me up and they. Put me in the car, and we drove – a long way. I didn't know where, exactly, and honestly I still only have a vague idea where it was. Somewhere in Missouri. Anyway, in the morning when I came to, they were leaving me at this – this place. It was supposedly like a – reform school or something. A boys' home. They said they were putting me in this program that was going to help me, and of course I freaked out, because I freaked out about everything back then, but it didn't do any good.”

_You have a pattern of being practically murdered by people who were supposed to love you_ , Eliot's therapist has told him. When Penny said that, he was presumably thinking about the beatings; he didn't know about this. No one knows about this. He's never told anyone this. How he begged while they left him to die.

Roughly, he rubs at his eyes, because of course he's going to cry. Of course. Quentin takes his hand and says, “Do you need a minute? Do you need water?”

“Vodka,” Eliot says on something like a shattered laugh. “Valium, if you've got it.”

Quentin strokes Eliot's hand with his thumb. “I'm right here,” he murmurs. “Just – say whatever feels right. You don't have to force anything.”

But he does. He does, because if he doesn't do this now, when will he ever do it? When will he ever be braver or more loved than he is right now? “So it was pretty shitty,” Eliot says robotically. “As you can imagine. They were heavily into surrendering your will to Jesus, which was functionally identical to regular old garden-variety having your will broken, so they'd do stuff like wake us up several times a night, sometimes for prayer circles, sometimes to search our rooms for contraband. And the food was – I mean, we were teenage boys, and they would give us like, this little square of meatloaf and a single-serving cup of applesauce. God, I still to this day can't eat fucking applesauce. I was hungry all the time. And we had to constantly be doing something, because if you were just sitting there, they'd say you were _resistant_ , and that was the thing you definitely didn't want to be. So we were doing all this labor, or we were copying random shit out of the Bible or this ancient set of encyclopedias. And they said it was a six-week program, but there were definitely kids who'd been there longer than that, and nobody could call home, you could only write these letters, and they basically told you what to write. So nobody really knew, you know? How long we'd be there. So no part of it was good, but. The worst part was they had these – group therapy sessions. Or supposedly they were therapy sessions, although looking back I very much doubt their process had ever come into contact with so much as a psychology major, let alone a professional therapist.”

Take a breath. Take a breath. It was so long ago now. It's just a story to tell. It's just Quentin. If Eliot can get through this, then he'll cry or whatever, and Quentin will hug him and tell him it wasn't his fault, and he'll – feel better, right? He'll probably feel better.

Everything's fine.

“So they'd have us write these essays,” Eliot continues. “About what was wrong with us, why we were here. And then every day in the group, they'd put one person in the chair in the middle and read his essay, and then everyone would-- Fuck, I don't even know. Talk about it? Get him to come to Jesus? I don't know what the goal was supposed to be, but it always just-- You know, we were all poorly adjusted teenage boys to start with, and then we'd been _Lord of the Flies_ -ed into basically psychosis. People would just – say anything, they'd lash out and scream and it was just, like – it was such a mind-fuck, I can't even begin to explain how it got inside your brain. It was like a fucking _Saw_ movie; I would've honestly cut my own leg off before I would've voluntarily sat in that chair. But the thing is, I didn't even – I didn't want to be in the room at _all_. I didn't want to – I mean – to do that to anyone else, either. I mean, it's one thing to hate myself, but... And I didn't, for a long time. Or at least it felt like a long time. A couple of weeks, anyway. I tried to – I tried to just sit there, I didn't want – I really didn't want to.”

“I know,” Quentin murmurs. “I know you didn't, sweetheart.”

God, he really needs to be – just _slightly_ less kind. Or else Eliot really isn't going to get to the bottom of this after all. “But they finally – they said I had to. And I – I really didn't know what to do, or what I was supposed to say – it was this kid who'd always been nice to me, I guess we were kind of friends, as much as we'd been allowed to make friends. I didn't know what to say, so I just started praying, quoting every Bible verse I could possibly think of about forgiving sins. And that was obviously _resistant_ , right? I mean, it literally was, I was feeling _extremely resistant_ by that point. So they dragged me out of the room, and they put me. They sent me. It was a basement, I think like – a root cellar or something? It was just concrete, basically, and this one light bulb. It's pretty – vague, in my mind. I just remember how cold it was, and there was nothing to lie on or sit on or anything, so you couldn't get comfortable.”

“Okay,” Quentin says, startlingly loud. He clears his throat and says it again, modulating his voice better this time. “Okay. I – I want to hear whatever you – but I need a second, is that okay? And I'm going to get a drink of water, are you sure you don't want one?” Eliot shakes his head.

Taking a second is probably good. Good for both of them. It seems to take more than a second, although Eliot can't really see where Quentin goes or what he does, from the back side of the Christmas tree. That's fine, there's no rush. When Quentin comes back, he offers the water bottle to Eliot, and just to shut him up about the damn water, Eliot takes a drink and hands it back. “Are you okay?” Eliot asks him.

“Oh my god, Eliot,” Quentin says with something like exasperation, but his smile is still so damn kind. “Yes, okay? I'm fine. How are you?”

Eliot shrugs. “Okay, I think. There's – not that much more to tell. I was there for – a while.” Seventy-two hours, he learned later on. At the time, of course, it could have been a few hours or a year, there was absolutely no way to tell. “And obviously I freaked out at first, like, a lot. But you can only keep that up for so long. And I was pretty weak by then – we all were, for obvious reasons – so I wore myself out fast. And then I just. I guess I snapped or something. I was lying there on the concrete, thinking about how fucking cold I was, and suddenly it was like I just – stepped out of my body and looked around. Like I could look down at myself, and. And I remember – there's a lot I don't remember that clearly, but I remember this like it was yesterday, I remember looking at my body and thinking, I'm going to die. And the weird thing is, that was – fine. I wasn't upset. It felt like a relief, you know? And not even in a despairing, dramatic kind of way. I just thought – yeah, fair. That's probably not someone who needs to keep being alive, honestly? It wasn't like anyone was going to miss him. And the weird thing.... I know you're going to think this is a metaphor or something, but I've always felt like – like I really. Died. Like, I mean, I obviously know that eventually they came and unlocked the door and I got up and walked up the stairs and went on with my life, but. I was-- It's hard to explain. I wasn't the same after that.”

“I wouldn't really expect you to be,” Quentin says.

“No, but. That's the thing. I was – better? I _felt_ better, at least. I stopped being so – so emotional about everything all the time. I just thought, okay, do what they want, say what they want to hear. And it was so easy to do. And I was there for a while longer, and then they sent me home, and – it was better than before. All my life, I'd felt like I was just – helpless and messy and, and I got things wrong, I did the wrong thing all the time, and after that, I could suddenly just kind of – turn it off at will, if I started feeling out of control. Everything was. It was so much easier – school and my dad and dealing with other kids – if I started to get stressed, I could just. Step away and cope with it. I was. Fuck. I was grateful, almost. Maybe not exactly _grateful_ , but. I really thought they'd managed to kill off – whatever part of me had been making everything so goddamn hard all my life. It probably did get me through high school without – whatever. Killing myself, or getting myself killed.”

Happy endings all around. The origin story of Eliot Waugh, artistic masterpiece and glorious swan.

But there was a price, wasn't there? Isn't there always?

“Can I hug you?” Quentin says, because he's – predictable. Sweet, and predictable.

Eliot maneuvers around so one leg is folded under him, the other foot on the floor. Quentin gets up on his knees, so when he wraps his arms around Eliot's neck, Eliot's face is pressed into Quentin's neck. He smells so wonderful, mid-range shampoo and sugar and ginger and warm skin, and Eliot puts his arms around Quentin's ribs and hugs him back. “I think there's a part of me that's dead,” Eliot says into Quentin's shoulder. “I think that's why I can't – why I don't care about people the way I'm supposed to, why it's so easy now to hurt them and lie to them and – I think there was a better part of me, and now it's gone, and all I do is show people what I think they want to see. But I'm not – nobody's ever loved me, and I think – they sense it somehow? That I don't have a – I mean, a soul, or, or whatever that part was? That I'm not – not real, I don't feel things the way that normal people--”

And he cries then. Whatever, obviously he was always going to wind up here eventually. It's not the first time he's cried since he was fourteen and he left his own dead body buried in a basement, but he's pretty sure it's the first time since then that he's cried like _this_ – choking, agonizing sobs, on and on and on until he can't breathe and his ribs hurt and his head hurts and he can't think straight. He remembers why he doesn't miss it.

Quentin holds onto him. The whole thing is such a noisy, ugly mess that it brings Margo out from the bedroom, too; at some point Eliot feels her long nails scraping through his hair, and he still can't pull himself together, not even for her. “Can you handle this, snugglebunny?” he hears Margo say.

“Yes,” Quentin says firmly. Eliot can feel the worlds on the other side of Quentin's chest. He can hear Quentin's heartbeat. “I've got it, Margo. We're okay. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Margo says, and she tugs lightly in Eliot's hair again and then lets him go. Someone kisses his hair once, and he's pretty sure it's her.

He cries basically forever, and fuck, by the time he's worn out, he's happy about the damn water bottle. He sucks half of it down all at once, trying not to think about what he must _look_ like by now.

“I want to say something,” Quentin says, making a probably futile effort to wipe Eliot's face clean with his bare hands. “But if you don't want me to, I won't. We can just – I can just be here, okay? We don't have to talk unless that's what you want.”

Sure, why not? Quentin always has interesting things to say. Eliot nods.

“Okay, maybe I want to say more than one thing,” Quentin admits, and Eliot smiles a little, because he figured that. “First, I, I don't want to – invalidate you? Because you say that this – experience, that it feels like it changed you, and it did, I believe you. I really do believe you. Because – Eliot, I know that you know you were, you were abused as a child, but I think maybe you don't know how – bad this was? What happened to you was a _human rights violation_ , they don't let people treat _prisoners of war_ that way, and you were a child. It's horrifying, what you went through. It's traumatic. And it hurt you, and the coping skills you used to walk away from it – they stayed with you. That's normal, Eliot. That's what happens. And I understand what you're saying when you say it felt like dying, but – sweetheart, that's – that's the perception you had, the, the framing you created when you were a kid. That's not reality. The reality is, _you walked out of there_. On your own feet. And you did what you had to do to – process it or make sense of it or whatever, but that doesn't mean you were – right about things? You didn't die. You didn't lose anything. You're here, and you're the same person you always were, you still have – conscience and a heart and empathy, just like you always did. A soul, if that's a thing that people have, I don't know about that, but if _anyone_ has one, you do.”

Eliot knows what he's saying, and he knows why he believes it, but he still can't-- He shakes his head and says, “You don't know. You don't know everything I've done. I've used people, and taken advantage of them, and I've – I can be so selfish, I can be cruel sometimes, cruel for no reason, just to prove that I can. I'm not who you think I am.”

Quentin runs his fingers through Eliot's hair and says, “I think you're a lot of things, El. And I – believe what you're saying. I do. But I've also seen you be so giving, and so patient, and so protective, and that's not less real. That's you, and it's real. You do care about people, and – people do love you. Not enough people, I know. You should've had so much more love, you deserved so much more, but you have us, and we're real, too – Margo and Teddy and me. We all love you, and it's not a trick or a mistake, we _love_ you, because you always hold onto us when we need it.”

“It just. Got so hard to hope for anything, for anything better. And I just stopped. I stopped, and I don't know how to start again.” Maybe it's as simple and un-mystical as that. Maybe it just got hard, and he stopped.

“I don't know, either,” Quentin says. “I think that's – a question for your therapist? I don't know how. But I know you can. I've never met anyone as strong as you are, Eliot. The things you've survived, and you're still-- If you _were_ broken, you'd have every right to be. But you're not. You're not, you're so good, I'm so fucking lucky to be the one you want.”

“You are,” Eliot says. “I do.”

Quentin kisses his forehead, and then his lips, and then step by step he cajoles Eliot into standing up and going into the guest bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth and drink more water.

It's after midnight by that point – Christmas Day. Quentin walks Eliot to the door of his bedroom, and Eliot takes hold of Quentin's arm and says, “Don't go.”

“I don't think – is there room?” Eliot has no idea if there is or not, but he nods anyway as he turns the doorknob.

So Christmas Eve, or technically Christmas morning, is the night they discover there is in fact room, barely, for all three of them in Eliot's bed.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay-o, it's your content warning! There's some discussion of suicide here, and -- just, like, this is not the cheeriest chapter? This is pretty near the Dramatic Climax of the story, so basically what I'm telling you is, chapter 12 somewhat sad, chapter 13 very sad but also cathartic, chapter 14 not sad, excellently happy. Okay, cool? Cool! We got this, y'all! We're in it together. You're all beautiful flowers, be kind, be smart, have fun. We're gonna be okay.

Like the rest of America, Eliot is dutifully back in his therapist's office in January. “So, you remember Quentin, right?” he says, and Penny nods. “Yeah, well, I guess – it seems like I'm probably in love with him.”

“Yeah, that seems pretty likely to me, too,” Penny says. “How's that feel?”

Eliot shrugs. “Good,” he allows. “At the moment.”

It feels good. Eliot has been in love twice before; he got his heart broken both times, and not a lot of either experience felt what you'd call _good_ , but. That's how Quentin feels. That's how Eliot feels, being with Quentin.

“At the moment,” Penny says. “Interesting qualifier.”

Yeah, Eliot didn't figure he'd sneak that one by. “It's been a hard few weeks,” he admits. “I thought it was just holiday stress, but. I don't know, I'm just feeling-- Everything is really good, and I keep feeling – disconnected, I guess? Like all this, this normal relationship shit, maybe it's not for me. For people like me.”

Penny's eyebrows do something curious and a little indulgent, kind of like Margo's do when Ted is being an especially adorable dumbass. “I think I need to hear a little more about your definition of _normal_ , just so we're all on the same page.”

And okay, yes, technically there are some very abnormal elements to Eliot's relationship, but he has a point and he's sticking to it. “All the weird parts are – outside stuff, but Quentin and I are just.... We met and I thought he was cute, so I flirted and we hooked up, and we spent more time together and found out we like each other, so it turned into dating and then a relationship and now we're in love, so. I mean, it's. Bog standard, really. I just...met someone. Like a normal person.”

It must be a good answer, because Penny nods and doesn't give Eliot any more grief about it. “So why can't you do things like a normal person?” The question startles a little laugh out of Eliot, because – in one way or another, people have been asking him that all his life, right? And he's never had an answer, and he doesn't have one now. He doesn't know why. He's not even convinced there is a _why_ – to any of it, to life. If there were a why, wouldn't some philosopher have figured it out by now? And from Eliot's experience of philosophy – which is admittedly limited to sleeping with a doctoral student, but still – he gathers that they very much have not figured it out, any more than anyone else has. “When you say maybe it's not for you,” Penny asks, “do you mean maybe you can't have it?”

“I have it,” Eliot says. “More like. Maybe I can't keep it. Things change, you know?”

“I do know,” Penny says. “But that's no way to live your life. However things change down the road, it doesn't invalidate where you are right now. You're allowed to occupy your own life, right now. You're even allowed to – stay with me, here – _enjoy_ it.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “That's your advice?”

“I mean, ultimately, yeah,” Penny says. “I know it's not immediately actionable, but – long-term, yeah. That's my advice.”

“I don't know how to...occupy this,” Eliot admits. “All this – these things I'm supposed to be now – somebody's father, somebody's boyfriend – partner? I don't know what that looks like. I spent all these years learning how to not give a fuck, and I can't – I can't spend years learning how to be there for people. I don't have that kind of time. They need me now.”

What he likes about Penny is that Penny takes his time. He taps his pen on his knee for a minute or two, thinking that over. In reality he's probably just running up the clock, but it seems like. It always seems like he's making an effort to see things from Eliot's point of view, rather than just rushing to tell him how full of shit he is. “Trial and error takes years,” Penny finally says, “but I think if we go into it with more of a plan, we can get there faster. So let's talk about, in a really concrete way, what being good at this would look like to you. Do you know anyone you think is good at it? A good father, a good husband or partner?”

“Like in the real world?” Eliot says.

“Ideally in the real world.”

Yeah, no. No, Eliot – barely knows anyone who's even made an _effort_ to do those things, let alone a successful effort. “Not really,” he says.

“That's okay,” Penny says, even though – god, it really is not okay, it's – so fucked up, right? Has Eliot's entire world been _that_ dysfunctional, not just him but everyone around him, literally forever? How is that _okay_? How is he in any way prepared for anything other than dysfunction and heartbreak? “What about the not-real-world? Ideally, if you could be exactly the kind of family man you'd most want to be, who would you be like? It's okay if who you think of is fictional.”

_How is that okay?_ How is it okay that being a half-decent man is only barely something that Eliot can _imagine_? But whatever. He tamps down his irritation and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Gomez Addams.”

It's fucked up, but Penny looks pleased with him, like today he is acing therapy. “Okay,” Penny says. “Solid choice. Now tell me why.”

Eliot glances down at his hands and notices he's twisting his wedding ring around his finger. He didn't even say thank you when she gave it to him – why didn't he? What the fuck is wrong with him? “I think because,” Eliot says slowly, “he's...passionate. Just the way he – expresses everything. The things he loves, the people he loves. He doesn't try to be macho, or, or – too sophisticated to have emotions. So everyone in his life – you know, his family, they – know. They never have to wonder if he loves them, or how much. That seems like. Seems like it's probably a good environment for his kids to grow up in. And – good for his marriage and everything.”

“Really good goals,” Penny says, and Eliot feels like an idiot for not catching on quicker. Of course Penny was tricking him into _setting more goals_. “So here's my next question for you: how many of the factors that make you admire Gomez have anything at all to do with him being normal?”

“I hate you,” Eliot says with a sigh.

Penny grins at him. “God, you make my job so easy. Honestly, Eliot, do you think you could come here with a _challenge_ for me, next time?”

 

January is touch-and-go.

Everything is – normal again, whatever that means. People head back to school, which means Eliot has a little bit of time on his hands. On the first day he has the place to himself, he mixes himself a celebratory Mai Tai, which turns into more than one drink, and actually like – a lot of drinks, until suddenly it's two in the afternoon and he's sitting on the floor of his bathroom, dizzy and nauseous and texting one of his mom-friends to lie through his teeth about car problems and ask her to pick up Ted.

It's not Eliot's finest hour, okay? He's aware.

He's halfway sober – thirty percent sober – by the time Ted gets home, and thank the Dark Lord for Disney Plus, because Lego Star Wars is Ted's life at this point and _yes, you can watch whatever you want_ and _we're ordering Chinese_ are all Ted needs or wants to know. Parenting is a lot easier this way; now Eliot remembers why he watched a lot of Nickelodeon and ate ham sandwiches every night when he was a kid.

He pleads a headache and goes to bed, which is where Margo finds him, half-dozing and headachey in the dark. “What's the matter with you?” she says, sitting on the bed beside him and turning his face toward her, but she says it – more nicely than she usually does.

“Whatever,” he says. “I just.... My tolerance isn't what it was. I forget sometimes.”

Margo sighs and strokes through his hair. “I need you back up and running,” she says. “I love a beautiful tragedy of a human being as much as the next girl, but your time's up for that. We're counting on you now.”

“I know,” he says. “Honestly, I'm – I'm sorry, it just. Snuck up on me.”

“Okay,” she says, and kisses his forehead. “Sleep it off, asshole. I love you.”

“Am I an alcoholic?” Eliot says. He didn't know he was going to say it, but then he says it, so now he's said it, and there it is.

Margo takes a second to think about it while she takes off her earrings and her bracelet and unpins her hair. “It's not like this is normal behavior for you,” she says, which isn't, Eliot notices, the word _no_. “I don't love you self-medicating, though.”

Is that what he's doing? Eliot closes his eyes. The room is dark, but there's light coming in from under the bedroom door, and he wants to block it all out. The room is quiet, but he can still hear the rattle of pills sliding around inside of silver-plated steel. “My mother was drunk when she died,” he says. “She was going to a party, but she'd already started drinking, and she took me to the babysitter's, and it was getting dark, and it was sleeting. There was black ice. She probably never noticed it. Nobody ever told me – I wasn't supposed to know, but small towns – people talk, I heard things I wasn't supposed to hear. They were both drunks. My parents.”

“So you should probably take it easy,” Margo says, and god, she can be so kind when she wants to be. Eliot doesn't know what he ever did to deserve being just about the only person in the world that Margo wants to spend that kindness on.

What a stupid thing to think. Nobody deserves anything. That's not even a real word.

“I will,” Eliot promises. “I'll. I'll take it easy.”

 

Eliot is not, he decides after a day or two of reflection, an alcoholic. He just makes shitty choices when he's bored, because the other option is thinking, and his thoughts lately have been – he doesn't know. Dark.

So he needs a better coping mechanism, now that he's crossed both strange men and substance abuse off the list, but that's fine, the world is full of healthy hobbies, right? Of course it is.

Maybe he goes a little overboard, but how is he going to learn what he likes if he doesn't try new things? He learns ASL and how to make sushi from YouTube, and he finds a gay bowling league that meets on Monday mornings and has no members other than Eliot under the age of 65. He takes up tap lessons again, which Quentin seems to find hilarious, and he also starts fencing lessons, which Quentin seems to find scorchingly hot, so mixed bag there. He spends more time at the Wellspring, unpacking and organizing the warren of basement prop and costume storage until he thinks he's practically the only person alive who actually knows what's down there; he feels like the Phantom of the Opera. Josh has a goth cousin who's getting married in an extremely aesthetically specific wedding in June, and Eliot somehow agrees to make her dress and three bridesmaids' dresses, which is a far more lucrative project, it turns out, than theater work.

It helps. It really does. God, all Eliot's life, has he been – _bored_ , has that been his problem? Scheduling is a nightmare, but now that Ted is more settled, he entertains himself a lot with the ongoing saga of Lego Robots vs Lego Dragons, or he'll sit at the rec center and play solitaire while Eliot fences. He'll really do whatever Eliot needs him to do, if he's bribed with blueberry pancakes or an impropmtu piano lesson afterwards. He's a good kid, really, even if he rambles when he talks and can get oversensitive about the most random stuff. Eliot knows they got lucky.

By the end of January, he hasn't had a single drink in three weeks. Eliot wouldn't call it sobriety, exactly. He's taking it easy, that's all.

Eliot's thoughts have been dark lately, but he's never really been one to live in his head. He wouldn't say he has all his issues solved or anything, but he wakes up with things to do and he falls asleep tired, and he really doesn't have the time or energy to sit around feeling all twisted up over bad things that happened a long time ago, or bad things that haven't happened yet.

“Is that what adulthood is?” Eliot asks his therapist. “Like – being successful at it, is it just – being too busy with life to focus on how fucked up you are?”

“I mean, it's not the worst definition I've ever heard,” Penny says. “Do you feel successful?”

“Yes and no,” Eliot says.

More yes than no, by the time February rolls around, but Eliot's not sure he's ready to say that. It feels a little bit like tempting fate.

 

The absolute worst thing about the _small children_ that Eliot lives with is that neither of them seem capable of understanding that Eliot doesn't get to bed until at least two after his Saturday shifts, so they're inevitably crawling all over him and tugging on his hands and insisting on food and attention on Sunday mornings.

“Please, I'm dying,” he says as pitifully as he can, but Ted is wrapped entirely around Eliot's arm, levering him up while Margo throws clothes at his actual face.

“We have a surprise!” Ted insists. “You have to come see the surprise.”

“I really, really need the surprise to come see me,” Eliot says. “While I lie here quietly and appreciate it. Can you do that for me?”

“Sorry, sunshine,” Margo says without a drop of actual sympathy in her voice. “Get dressed.”

Get _dressed_? She's a _sociopath_. “Are we leaving the house? Who would do that? You said you loved me.”

“Your boy is making waffles across the hall,” she says.

“I swear to god, if that's the surprise--”

“Eliot!” Ted says, literally jumping on the bed in his excitement. “I want to show you the surprise!”

So what choice does he have, really? “Give me twenty minutes,” he sighs, aiming his feet in the vague direction of the floor.

“You know he's seen your morning hair already, right?” Margo points out with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

Eliot doesn't dignify that with a response. In fact, he spends _more_ time in the bathroom than strictly necessary, just to prove he can't be bullied into giving Ted and Margo their way, even though he can very clearly be bullied into giving Ted and Margo their way.

Quentin meets him with a mug of coffee at the door, because Quentin is the only one of them who loves Eliot with true purity of heart. “You look nice today,” Quentin says.

“ _Thank_ you, baby,” Eliot says, glancing over to make sure Margo appreciates how correct Eliot was about the value of putting in effort. Margo rolls her eyes again, but Eliot feels he's won the point anyway. Eliot is _very good_ at relationships, actually.

He's also very good at not spilling coffee all over himself while being dragged across the room by a six-year-old. Ted throws open the door to his bedroom, and – oh. Okay, Eliot is officially surprised.

The daybed is still there, but everything else is gone – the chest and the bookshelves and the pictures, everything that looked like a child's room. Instead, there's a table for Eliot's sewing machine pushed up under the window, and the plastic bins full of projects that have been living stacked up behind the dining room table at Eliot's apartment have been unpacked and hung on a railing along one side of the room. They've hung framed prints of French posters advertising can-can shows, and one aerial view of New York at night, and installed track lighting, and brought in an overstuffed armchair with a cozy blanket thrown over it. There's even a vase of pink roses by the sewing machine. “When did all this happen?” Eliot asks. It's not a particularly relevant question, but it seems to be the only one Eliot's mouth is willing to make.

“Yesterday,” Quentin says. “The three of us knocked it out after you left for work, and Poppy came over and helped, too. Do you like it? You can change things you don't like, obviously, you don't have to – but I mean, do you? Like it?”

Ted gets up on his bed and resumes hopping in roughly the same rhythm he was using before to hop with his shoes on Eliot's bed. “I can still sleep here!” he says gleefully. “Sometimes I can. But I have one room already, and you don't have anywhere for your things, and it's not fair, so you can have

mine!”

“Thanks, kid,” Eliot says. “That's-- You know, all of you. Thank you.”

Now that the big reveal has been executed, Ted is totally over the interior decorating situation and onto the waffle situation, so they've moved onto breakfast. It's a couple of hours later when Eliot catches a break and can slip back into the room to look it over more carefully.

Quentin trails him in, a few hesitant steps behind like he's trying not to be in the way. “You really can change anything you want,” he says. “Nobody will be offended.”

Eliot reaches back to catch Quentin's wrist and pull him closer, tucking him up under Eliot's arm where he's always fit just perfectly. “We'll see,” Eliot says. “This was your idea?”

“I don't remember,” Quentin says. “Margo and I have been talking since you started at the theater about how you need more space. It just came together when.... El, I can't – I don't know how to tell you how proud of you we are.”

“Proud of me?”

“Yeah. We haven't – talked that much, really, since Christmas. I mean, we've talked, but not--” Eliot nods briefly to indicate that he understands the distinction Quentin is making. “Hey, come here,” Quentin says, which doesn't entirely make sense until he tugs Eliot around so they're standing face to face. Quentin puts an arm around Eliot's waist and looks up at him with those soft, intently earnest brown eyes that always make Eliot a little – whatever. Fluttery. “When I met you, I thought you were, you know – sexy and interesting and – just, obviously really special, but I also, I thought, I felt kind of – bad for you? Because you seemed so kind of, I guess, hollow? Like you were walking around, living your life, but you weren't really going anywhere or doing anything, and it seemed like, god, you know? Such a fucking waste. And ever since then, I've gotten to see you do this, this amazing thing, _all_ of these amazing things, taking risks and, um, I guess, I feel like, opening up more, letting people in? Letting Ted and me in, at least. And I don't think you realize how much you've changed, you're like a whole different person now, you're involved in things and you're taking on all these creative projects and you're going to therapy and being honest in these scary, vulnerable ways.”

“Also I quit smoking,” Eliot points out, because that _sucked_ and he wants credit for it.

“That, too!” Quentin says. “And you're just – the person you are now, El, the, this person, you're. I don't know, I just love seeing you come alive and. Do what you love doing, and be so present for the people you love. I know it hasn't been easy, and I just, I admire the fuck out of you. You've been stuck in the shittiest situations imaginable, and you've picked yourself up and gotten yourself out of them in one piece, and – I wish I had half of whatever it is you have, whatever – inner resources, because I-- Okay, that's not the point, I just. I just love you, and I want to support you and whatever you want to do.”

Eliot kisses his forehead and mumbles, “Careful, I have a praise kink.” That's probably not what Eliot's therapist or Gomez Addams would advise him to say, but Quentin still leans against him like he's relieved to hear it. Like he got everything he was looking for.

Like everything he was looking for was somehow Eliot.

They stand together like that for a long time, in a quiet little workroom where dust floats through the sunbeams, and the world is frozen in February but in here there's nothing but light.

 

For a long time after that, Eliot is half-convinced that he dreamed that morning.

February is so fucking hard.

 

It's not obvious, but Eliot's starting to notice the signs.

Quentin still talks, but his eyes drift off, staring blankly into the middle distance like he's barely listening to himself. Quentin still shows up for dinner most nights, but he's never hungry. Quentin still shops and does laundry and picks up Ted when it's his turn, but when he sits down he disappears into whatever alternate reality only he knows about, curling around his knees and tugging at the insides of one sleeve with his thumb while the other thumb scrolls endlessly down his phone, as fast as he can read. Quentin still kisses Eliot, but he's silent and still when Eliot wraps a hand behind his neck, almost like he doesn't notice. Like he can't feel Eliot's touch, not even skin-to-skin.

He's on the computer every night, later and later at night, tik tik tik, and he gives vague answers when Eliot tries to draw him out about whether he's working on a paper or his novel or dealing with students. He gives vague answers when Eliot asks him if he's getting enough sleep. He gives vague and annoyed non-answers when Eliot says _do you think maybe you're just tired?_

Of course he's not just tired, but Eliot does think he's tired, that if he'd just get off the fucking couch and  _go to bed_ , he'd feel at least a little bit better in the morning. But what does Eliot know. He's no therapist.

It's not obvious, except that it kind of is, and Eliot's not sure if everyone is too polite or too scared to say anything about it. Quentin blows off his Thursday seminar two weeks in a row; Eliot doesn't think he's staying on campus for his office hours, either.

Margo's birthday is the day before Valentine's Day, and when he asks what she wants to do, she elects to get dressed up, go dancing, and  _make boys cry_ . Eliot does his best to fill his role, but his heart's not in it. Margo can't even get away from work until almost seven, and before midnight they're calling an Uber to get them home, tipsy and exhausted and a little maudlin. Eliot holds her in his lap and she says, “You gave up everything for me.”

“I – what?” Eliot says. “I didn't give up anything for you.”

“Los Angeles,” she says. “You could have been great, Eliot. You were really so. You were so good. And you quit to save my life.”

“Bambi, nobody was shooting at  _you_ ,” he reminds her.

She muffles a fit of giddy giggling against his neck until she can say, “Oh, whatever, we could always have killed that guy. But I couldn't stay clean in LA. You knew that.”

He didn't know that for sure, and he doesn't make it a habit to bet against his Bambi. But – yeah, that was a factor. “Clean break was better for both of us,” he says.

“You could've been great,” she says again, sadly.

“There were a thousand others just like me,” he says. “Hollywood is doing fine. And so are we. Aren't we?”

They are. Aren't they?

 

Valentine's Day is a sham holiday, and this year it's on a Friday, so who wants to go out and deal with the crowds and all that shit? Literally nobody, that's who. Eliot picks up an extra shift at the bar.

He does get some flowers, though. Not to – make a big deal of anything, he just thought. You know, why not? He keeps them in the beer cooler at work until he's ready to go home, and while he's getting his scarf and gloves in order, one of the new hires he barely knows asks if those are for his wife. “God, no,” Eliot says, double-wrapping the scarf with a flourish. “My wife hates that sappy shit. They're for my boyfriend.”

Eliot has a life where he gets to say things like that, and he doesn't think he'll ever be tired of it.

It's ten-thirty when he lets himself into Quentin's, and he doesn't know what to expect. Lately it's hard to know what to expect. All the lights are off, but he can still see Quentin huddled in the corner of the couch, lit by the glow of his phone screen. “No, El,” he says when Eliot puts the flowers down on the coffee table, in a complicated tone of weary surprise. “We said we weren't going to.”

“I know, but it's not a big deal,” Eliot says. “They were on special at the grocery store, okay? I didn't go out of my way.” He takes a seat on the two-thirds of the couch that Quentin is scrunched up to avoid as if it's lava, and he tries to sound light and teasing when he says, “Don't feel that they obligate you to kiss me or anything.” Quentin smiles faintly, there and then gone. “How was your day?” Eliot asks.

“I don't know,” Quentin says. “Fine. Bad. I don't know.”

“You know, that – the blue light, it messes with your sleep cycles. You have twenty metric tons of literal books on paper, you could – I think you'd get better rest if you--”

“Eliot,” Quentin says. “Can you. Come on.”

“No, I mean....” But Quentin's right. Obviously he's right. Eliot's doing that thing again with the unsolicited advice, and he shouldn't do that, but. “Hey,” he says, reaching out for Quentin's phone. “Hey, come on, let me--” Quentin doesn't exactly _let_ Eliot take it out of his hand, but he doesn't exactly prevent it, either. “Listen, just, just talk to me for a minute.”

But once he has Quentin's attention, Eliot – isn't sure what he thought they were going to talk about. “Why are you here?” Quentin finally says. “We said we weren't doing anything tonight.”

“I just--” Why is he _here_? Eliot can't remember Quentin ever asking him that before. “Just. Saying hello, I guess.”

“Okay, hello,” Quentin says. “I'm sorry, I'm not really feeling charming right now.”

“No, it's not just a feeling, you're actually not,” Eliot can't help saying.

Quentin rolls his eyes and says, “Then go home, El, okay? It's late. Thank you for the flowers, but – go home.”

Okay, Eliot has done a lot of weird things since he's been in this relationship, but he doesn't _take orders_ , he has _standards_. “This is my home,” he says, and Quentin's wandering gaze snaps right to him, startled. “That's mine,” Eliot says, pointing at the piano. “And half my stuff is in that room right there, and I made all the leftovers in your refrigerator, and I have a key, and your cat recognizes my sovereignty over half your mattress, so guess what? I basically live here, die mad about it.”

“You sound like Margo,” Quentin grumbles, which just means that he doesn't have any case against the merits. “I don't-- why do you even want to be here? How was my _day_? You _know_ how my day was, and now what am I supposed to do, entertain you? I don't know what you want from me, but I can't-- I can't. I'm sorry. I know it's Valentine's Day, I just – can't.”

“Okay, shut up,” Eliot says. He half expects Quentin to resist being dragged to the center of the couch, into Eliot's arms, but he doesn't resist. He leans on Eliot, heavy as dead weight, one hand resting on Eliot's waist and bleeding chill through Eliot's cheap work shirt. “I'm sorry you had a bad day,” Eliot says. _Another bad day_ , he thinks but doesn't say as he kisses Quentin's head. “When's the last time you ate?”

“I don't know,” Quentin says.

“You can't take your meds on an empty stomach. Want me to fix you a sandwich?”

“I don't want to take – they don't help. I don't think they're helping at all.”

“Okay,” Eliot says carefully. “Well. You can't go off of them, or at least not all at once. You know that. So you have to take one tonight, and you'll be sick if you don't eat.”

“Don't fucking talk to me like a child,” Quentin says weakly, and before Eliot can gather himself to respond to that without laughing, Quentin shudders once in his arms and then starts to cry.

That's never happened before, but honestly it's not harder to deal with than Quentin in Cranky Badger mode. “Hey, it's okay,” Eliot says softly, stroking his back. “It's okay, sweet boy, I've got you.”

“ _Why_?” Quentin says, the word jammed into a break in his hitching breath. “Why, why do you want me? I'm so awful to you, I'm so – fucking crazy, and I think I'm going to – I mean, it's never, it's never going to stop, Eliot. If I'm not happy now, then I'm never, I'm never-- I can't keep doing this, I'm just dragging the rest of you down with me.”

Eliot lets the words slide past him, frictionless, disappearing into the dark. He can't listen, can't even think-- He can't let them mean anything, because they don't. They don't mean anything, Quentin is just. In a mood. “I'm going to make you something to eat,” Eliot says. “You're not crazy, sweetheart, you're dehydrated and your blood sugar is bottoming out and you've been on Twitter all day, you know nobody can survive that with their sanity intact.” Quentin's ribs hitch again in the circle of Eliot's arms, this time with laughter. “You're going to eat something and drink some water and take your pill, and then I'm going to wash your hair for you. You like that, you'll feel so much better after that. And then you'll realize how tired you are. That's all, you're just tired.”

“I don't know why you're so nice to me,” Quentin says. “It doesn't even make sense – _we_ don't make any sense. El, you're unbreakable, and I'm unfixable. We might as well be different _species_.”

“Sometimes it's like you've never even seen _The Shape of Water_ ,” Eliot says as though the very thought causes him great pain in his soul, and he holds Quentin while he laughs his way through the last of his tears.

Most of the time Quentin has a bowl of cereal at the end of the night with his pill, but – hey, Eliot's no therapist, but he's no fool, either, and he's figured out by now that the best way to lure Quentin out of his head is to spoil his body a little. So Eliot puts in a little extra effort, toasting an English muffin and slicing up some brie and spreading peach jam on it, and pouring a can of sparkling water into one of the glass mugs Quentin keeps in the freezer for the root beer floats he likes to make for Ted. Quentin doesn't say anything about how it's definitely not a bowl of Golden Grahams, but he smiles a little at Eliot like it isn't going unnoticed.

Eliot takes his time in the shower, mostly focused on pedestrian grooming concerns, but he does take a small risk and string a few gentle kisses along Quentin's shoulder; he's really not trying to start something, but it – breaks his heart, really, that Quentin is even thinking about _why_ Eliot wants him, that he's sticking in his head on this idea that the two of them might not pass muster in Intro to Logic, when honestly, _fuck_ logic, Eliot just – loves this, loves to hold him and touch him and taste him. Why does it have to be more complicated than that? This is what makes Eliot happy, and he's spent his life hearing songs about happiness and slowly starving to death for it, and now just the taste, the _taste_ of Quentin's skin under Eliot's lips is enough to live on, it feels like a feast by comparison.

He can't stop, and he kisses Quentin's pulse point while drying his hair, and he whispers _I love you_ against the back of his neck and against the damp strands of hair clinging behind Quentin's ear, and he can't stop, he can't let this go now that he knows what it feels like.

It's a little cold to sleep naked, and anyway Eliot doesn't want this to come across like a seduction thing, because it's not, so he gets them both bundled into pajamas before bed. “Am I the fish or the girl?” Quentin asks, pulling Eliot's arm tightly over him.

“Girl,” Eliot says. “Let's be honest, baby, who really has the raw sexual magnetism of a del Toro fish monster in this relationship?”

“Okay,” Quentin chuckles. “Fair, yeah. Just, maybe sometimes I want to be a mythological monster, too.”

“You'll always be my unicorn,” Eliot reminds him.

Eliot thinks that Quentin has gone to sleep, he's so quiet, but at last he says, “The reason I didn't take my pill earlier is – I didn't really – trust myself. Not to take all of them.”

It doesn't mean anything. The words slip past him in the darkness, spinning out of control, sliding unstoppable across black ice exactly the way that Eliot has imagined a thousand times, too fast and then gone, over and gone. Eliot takes a long breath, and he lets it out even longer. He can't open his eyes. Like the bite of a syringe, it doesn't hurt if you don't look. “Do you think about that a lot?” he asks.

“No,” Quentin says. “Well. At least not recently. You don't get the platinum membership card at the psychiatric ward without a certain amount of suicidal ideation, sure. Not to brag.”

“Can you just – give me two minutes where we both deal with this like normal human beings?” Eliot says. “Before we get all Dorothy Parker about it or whatever?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “Sorry, yeah. Are you freaked out?”

“I'm not sure,” Eliot says. “Probably? I think I'm freaking out subconsciously or something. I mean, I don't – have to explain to you how I feel about that idea, right?”

“No, I can guess that you're pretty against it,” Quentin says, still sounding a little more warm and amused than Eliot really likes to hear during a freak-out. “It's – not what I want either, you know? It's not. I want to be happy.”

_So why can't you be happy?_ Eliot wants to say, like a child. He knows the answer. The answer is, _because he can't_. There's nothing else. It's not because anything, not anything Quentin is doing wrong or Eliot is doing wrong or that either of them deserve. Eliot knows that.

It's just that Eliot _is_ happy. Maybe sometimes he acts like he isn't; maybe sometimes he pulls so far back from the intensity of it that he gets stuck questioning it or doubting it or pretending he'll be ready if and when it disappears out from under him. All of that is bullshit, it's total bullshit, and Eliot is such a bullshit artist that he can even fool himself at least half the time, but he's – happy, he _wants_ this and he wants to _keep_ it and he's never, ever had his heart broken like it's going to break if he ever has to go back to life without Q. Yeah, love is stupid; it's anxiety and it's struggle, and it's not like Eliot enjoys walking around with the exposed feeling of having all his scar tissue stripped away from the fresh, raw skin it was meant to protect. But still. But still. God, _fuck_ , he's still – happy, and Quentin Coldwater is the reason that Eliot knows what it feels like to be happy.

It's so unfair that Quentin's janky brain chemistry seems to let him feel all the messy, terrifying parts of being in love, but not – the rest of it. The light and the heat and the longing and the joy of belonging to someone who takes everything you have and then becomes everything to you. Life ain't fair, yeah. Eliot knows, but he can still hate it a little bit, even as numb to the cold, hard fact of it as he thought he was.

“So what's the procedure?” Eliot asks after clearing his throat. “When this is – where you are. What do you do?”

“Different things,” Quentin says. “Sometimes I write it down. That burns up a certain amount of mental, emotional energy, and it kind of keeps me busy until things pass. Mostly I distract myself, or I get someone else to distract me, or I just. Take a nap. Most of the time, it happens in pretty short bursts, and if I can just keep from getting caught up in it, I'll be okay.”

“Have you ever – tried something like that?” Eliot asks.

Almost too quickly, Quentin says, “No, never. If it's really bad, the plans start kind of – looping through my mind, like compulsive thoughts, and I stop being able to distract myself. That's. The times that's happened, that's how I ended up someplace where they confiscate my shoelaces. But that's. That's worst-case scenario. So far. Honestly, my rock-bottom usually looks a lot more like just. Not getting out of bed. Most of the time, the more depressed I am, the less I have the fucking energy for a suicide attempt.”

“Oh, well, problem solved,” Eliot says.

“I'm really setting a high bar here for future Valentine's Days, aren't I?” Quentin says. “Sorry about that.”

“I mean, this is incredibly sexy,” Eliot agrees. “I don't know if it's _merry Christmas, mind if I process an entire lifetime of abuse all at once and get snot on your sweater?_ levels of sexy, but you did your best.”

“We really know how to throw a party, I guess,” Quentin says.

“Right?” Eliot says, kissing his neck lightly. “It's weird that we don't have more friends.”

 

The new plan is this.

Writing things down with his physical hands around a physical pen seems to help, so they get Quentin a little Moleskine notebook. Eliot's not exactly sure what he fills it with, other than basically everything he does in any given day, like some kind of cross between a diary and an accounting ledger, but it doesn't matter, because it keeps Quentin from zoning out and losing hours and hours of his time.

Hard and fast bedtimes and out-of-bedtimes help, so Quentin is only allowed to be in bed between the hours of eleven pm and eight am, no phone in bed, no _just one more chapter,_ and absolutely no depression naps, and if he tries any shenanigans, Eliot is legally and morally empowered to bully him into sticking with the schedule.

Physical touch helps, so Monday mornings after they take Ted to school together and before Eliot's bowling practice they get mani-pedis, so all of that together is probably the gayest Eliot has ever been in his life, and definitely the gayest Quentin has ever been. Sometimes after the nail salon, Quentin heads to campus, but sometimes he sets up with his laptop and a soft pretzel at the bowling alley and does his cute Professor thing while occasionally cheering for Eliot, and Mondays are always Quentin's best days; he shows up for his office hours now, and sometimes he does that little sparkle-smile at the floor after Eliot kisses him, which is not a regular occurrence anymore. Mondays are good.

Eliot doesn't know if a wardrobe change actually can help, but he confiscates every goddamn one of Quentin's hoodies anyway and tells him he can have them back if and when Eliot jolly well says so. He takes Quentin on a tour of every thrift shop in town to stock him up on jackets and cardigans, because it is still February, and Eliot's not doing this to be cruel. He just thinks the hoodies are fucking cursed and he hates them, that's all.

“This is bullshit,” Quentin tells him mildly while accepting another armful of sweaters to try on. “Dressing me up makes _you_ feel better, not me.”

“First of all, possibly,” Eliot allows. “But am I not also a man with needs? And second, you will too feel better when you don't look like you live under a bridge.”

“This may just be one of those ways that we're different people,” Quentin says.

“Maybe!” Eliot says brightly, shoving Quentin back through the changing room curtain. “But probably no, you're wrong and you don't know what you're talking about.” Quentin sticks his head out again, looking argumentative, and Eliot says, “You're going to fight me on costume design? Really? That's something you think you're qualified to do?”

Quentin's eyebrows come together in concern, like he's actually worried about hurting Eliot's feelings by undermining him. “Well, I – it's not really _costume_ design,” he says. “It's, they're just – normal clothes.”

The boy is going to drive Eliot to _drink_ , honestly. “I am literally begging you to understand that the fact you think there's a difference disqualifies you from having an informed opinion. I am your new wardrobe manager, and I swear that if you let me dress you like a hot bisexual nerdcore hipster-adjacent grad student working on his first novel, then that is what you will transform into.”

“I...already am? Most of that?” Quentin says, although he doesn't look entirely committed to that opinion.

“You're so close,” Eliot promises. “We can do this, baby, just try the cable-knit.”

They can do this. They can.

They have to.

 

It's the new new normal for about a month, and honestly not all of it is bad. Eliot rearranges things as best he can to make it possible for Q to come along with wherever Eliot needs to go, and that fulfills the primary purpose of making sure Quentin's not turning into a jittery Mole Person in his apartment alone, but also the secondary purpose of – just, they're spending a lot of time together, the two of them and also Ted, and a fair amount of the time it's. Nice.

Even if Quentin isn't his normal self, he's nice to have around. He's endlessly tolerant of the parts of Ted's life that Eliot finds most agonizingly boring, and endlessly patient with homework help and card games and other repetitive shit that Eliot is thrilled to be able to offload onto someone else while he cooks and sews and generally lives his best Little Gay House on the Prairie life. Quentin has the heartbreaking ability to listen and be supportive and thoughtful even when he's in the goddamn middle of an anxiety episode, wrapped around his knees with tired, haunted eyes but still nodding along with whichever one of them has chosen to infodump their daily stresses into his hands. He starts smoking again and shares his cigarettes with Eliot without making a thing about it; maybe that's not ideal from a health standpoint, but none of this is ideal, and they're in it together, so that's just – how things are. Idealism is out; they're settling for _pretty good_ and _less unhealthy_ and _just between you and me_ , at least for this spring. Quentin keeps letting his hair grow out, and he looks so damn cute in his skinny jeans and his manbun and his cardigans, Eliot almost can't stand it.

They're doing okay – all of them, the whole family. Some days are better, some are worse, but what they really are, all of them, the whole family, is...messy and overextended and stupid in love and stubborn as shit.

Even the sex is – not non-existent, probably mainly because Eliot and Quentin are stubborn as shit. They're tired all the time – particularly Q, but Eliot's not exactly _not_ exhausted, himself – but showering together is high on their list of self-care strategies (particularly for Q, but Eliot doesn't exactly _not_ think it's saving him from a fucking breakdown most days), and those tend to end with handjobs. Sure, when Eliot stops and thinks about it, there's something a little clinical about the habit, but in the moment it always feels – surprisingly good. They're in a small, private place, flushed and slick and completely exposed to each other, and it's silent and familiar, hungry and intimate. Eliot's been naked with he shudders to think how many people, had dicks in his hand and hands on his dick, has put himself in the most wildly inadvisble compromising positions that man can devise – but every time he trusts Q with his orgasms, Eliot feels more open and more vulnerable than he ever has before. Every time it's a new record, and he keeps waiting to freak out about it, but it never happens.

They get through the grim back half of February, and an early March blizzard, and midterms, and it could be better, could be worse. The new new normal isn't the stuff that dreams are made of, but it works. They make it work – at least more days than it doesn't work.

Sometimes Eliot can't help but wonder how long they can-- If this is life now, if it's just like this forever, then how long can--

But there's always something to distract himself with, and god, Eliot needs the distraction. _How long, how much longer_ is not a question he can just sit and think about. Knowing the answer wouldn't do any good anyway, would it? _How long_ is _however long it takes_. That's what Eliot knows. That's what counts.

Everything's fine.

Everything's fine.

Jesus, he's glad he's smoking again.

 

Eliot hardly ever runs into Idri Loria at the theater, probably because Idri has a grown-up job, and Eliot is often there and gone before anyone else, in the first few hours of his day after dropping off Ted and Quentin at their respective schools. Plenty of days, Eliot has the whole place to himself, letting himself in with the security code on the alley door at the back of the theater.

He's sitting on the edge of the stage, drinking the last of the coffee from his morning thermos, on a random Friday when he does see lights go on and then off out in the box office, and a few minutes later, he sees Idri coming down the center aisle of the house. “Are you playing hooky?” Eliot asks. Well, what is he supposed to say? It's rude to say nothing, and it's – okay, probably not rude not to flirt, but.... Look, from a certain point of view, flirting _is_ the compromise position between pretending to ignore Idri and – an epically inappropriate brand of honesty, because nobody needs Eliot's honest opinion about those shirtsleeves rolled up to expose Idri's strong forearms, or the warm, level intensity of his dark eyes, or the slow way he walks like he knows he won't miss a thing, because he knows the world won't start until the minute he gets there.

Honestly? Eliot admires him more than he wants to fuck him, although _honestly_? The idea of fucking him sounds just self-destructive enough to light up that part of Eliot's brain that tends to respond to _that would be bad for you_ with _how bad, though? Tell me more._

Idle flirting lights up a different, less damaged part of Eliot's brain. Flirting just lights up Eliot's vanity, and while vanity might be Eliot's most visible sin, it's probably the one least likely to give his therapist a coronary. While Eliot's being _honest_ with himself.

“I wish,” Idri says. “I have a lunch meeting with a school board member shortly. You look very comfortable up there.”

Eliot shrugs. “I like empty theaters,” he says. “I don't know, they have – personality.”

Idri sits down in the front row, stretching his legs out and giving Eliot a long, assessing look across the orchestra pit. Eliot lifts his chin slightly, tries not to give in to the restless urge to shift around. Eliot doesn't let men think they make him nervous, or even that they can see anything in him that he doesn't permit them to see; that never ends well. (Twice Eliot broke that rule, once for the worst man he ever met, and once for the best, and parts of both experiences have felt a whole fucking lot like dying.) “You're an actor, aren't you?” Idri says. “You seem like you are.”

“I don't know how to take that,” Eliot says.

“As a compliment,” Idri assures him. “You have a certain...bearing. I notice it in people who are comfortable in performance.”

“I did some acting,” Eliot says. “A while back.” _You could have been great,_ Margo seems to think. She never really said that at the time. Eliot thinks she's sprucing up their history a bit in her mind – making their glory days more glorious than they really were. Talent isn't greatness; Eliot knows the difference.

“So here's my proposition for you,” Idri says.

Eliot can't help but smirk. He's only human. “Is that the phrasing you want to go with?” he says.

“No, but I've already done it, so let's move on,” Idri says, unflustered. Eliot has a hard time picturing this guy flustered. “In the summer, I always direct one show myself – not for the rep company, community talent only. I've been wanting to do _Fiddler on the Roof_ for several years, but I've never felt like I had quite the right performers available. This year the people I've wanted for Tevye and Golde are finally both available at once, and I think this is my chance.”

“It's a great show,” Eliot says.

Idri nods. “You should audition for it,” he says. “I'm dying to cast you as Motel the tailor. Now, I know it's a bit off-type for you,” he hurries to say, filling the silence that Eliot can't quite figure out how to break. “But I think it's an underrated role. It's comedic – and I think with your long limbs, we can really get the most out of a bit of physical comedy – but it also needs someone the audience wants to root for as a romantic hero, and who can hold the stage for a high-energy solo.”

“What if I can't sing?” Eliot says.

“You sing around here all the time,” Idri says. “You think people haven't noticed?” He did think people hadn't noticed; he thought he mostly sang by himself, or around his deaf boss. Maybe he's been more careless than he realized. “Eliot,” he says when Eliot still doesn't have anything to say for himself, and his voice is low and liquid and soothing. It should be sexy – normally it is – but right now he just sounds so. Gentle. “What's holding you back?”

That's the question, isn't it. “I don't know,” Eliot admits. “I just-- I don't act anymore. I gave it up.”

It was really hard. He did it for years, and it was all – auditions and rejections and shitty arthouse movie scripts, rickety venues with no room for the audiences that weren't showing up anyway and people blithely announcing what they thought was wrong with his face or his voice, being too gay to play the lead but just gay enough to fuck the producer and constant competition with anyone who might have turned out to be a friend. It wasn't worth doing anymore, not at the price.

It wasn't what he remembered it being, from the first times he stepped out on a stage. It got harder and harder to remember what that used to feel like.

_You're allowed to quit, if it doesn't make you happy anymore_ , Mike told him. And at the time, Eliot thought that was – such a sweet thing to say. That nobody had ever cared about Eliot's happiness as much as Mike did, that nobody ever would care as much.

_I never understood why you'd quit something you obviously loved so much_ , Quentin told him. And that's the funny thing about Quentin, isn't it? He's so, so shitty at happiness, and so good at love.

“I appreciate the offer,” Eliot says. “I really do. And it sounds like fun, but – you know, I'm going to have Ted at home all summer, and – and my boyfriend, he's. Sick. So that's – been a lot, taking care of him is-- There's a lot going on.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” Idri says. “I hope this doesn't cross any lines, Eliot; it's not my place to tell you how to live your life, but I've always felt.... You remind me so much of myself – myself at your age, that is. My wife and I were both working and raising our son, and my parents were in poor health, physically and mentally. There were a few – difficult years. Sometimes they felt impossible. I can't begin to tell you how many times I got in my car with somewhere important to go, and just fantasized about driving and driving and never coming back.”

A tight little laugh jumps in Eliot's chest. Is that what happens to normal people, do they just – imagine running away? That sounds like it has a much shorter recovery time than a bottle of gin and the floor. “I guess it got easier at some point?” Eliot says.

“Eventually,” Idri says. “But I couldn't just wait for things to get easier. I would never have made it that far. But someone I knew, a friend, asked me to be her assistant director for a show here. At first I thought she was insane, and I told her so, many times.”

“What changed your mind?” Eliot asks.

Idri looks at him for a long moment, then smiles slightly and says, “You know, I really don't remember? Just one of those moments, I guess. Where you decide to say _fuck you_ to life and do what you want. I can't tell you what changed my mind, but I can tell you I've never once regretted it. I can tell you for sure that... when it felt like even the things I loved most, my marriage and my career and my family, couldn't do anything but take from me, art is what gave me back to myself. It was the single best _fuck you_ I ever let myself have.”

Eliot doesn't know what to say. He's never really – been good at finding the words. He likes music and color and line and scripts where other, smarter people tell him what to say. Words have always been – he's not stupid, but there's always been – so much in him that he's never known how to _say_. “Thank you,” he finally says. “That's... something to think about.”

“I hope so,” Idri says, standing up. “Take care of yourself, Eliot.”

Eliot always does. At least, he always has.

 

The night that Quentin brings out a new puzzle and sets it up on his dining room table is the night that Eliot finally sends the e-mail he told himself he wouldn't send.

The puzzle isn't even cool art or something, like the Escher. It seems to be just random blocks of color, and when Eliot mentions that it looks like, stupid hard, Quentin just cuts him a quick glance like he's a fucking idiot and says, “That's the point.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “I guess your life's a little too easy lately, huh?”

He doesn't even know-- It's supposed to be a joke, obviously. He just doesn't know if he expects Quentin to laugh at it or not. Anyway, he doesn't laugh.

Eliot's had the e-mail address for a week; it wasn't hard to find. But he told himself....

Okay, well, everyone tells themselves all kinds of things. Honestly, most of the time in Eliot's experience, the least reliable person you know is yourself.

He settles onto Quentin's couch and logs into the e-mail account he never uses and picks the subject line _I know this is weird_.

_If you don't have time or energy to deal with this, you can just delete it_ , he punches into his phone. He could borrow Quentin's computer, he guesses, to log into Gmail, but that feels like an extra level of shadiness, and he can't quite go there. _Quentin's not doing too well, which isn't your problem anymore, I know, but I also know you still care about each other, so I just wondered if there was anything that maybe I should know about his health, or how to help him. He doesn't answer my questions a lot of the time because I'm “not his doctor,” and I know that's his right, but also he's maybe not in the best place to be making decisions. It just sucks not to know what's going on, and I thought because you've known him so long, you might have maybe not all the answers but at least one or two answers. I don't know, you're probably in the middle of midterms too and this is the last thing you need. If you delete this and don't answer, I won't bother you again._

He's not happy with it as he types it up, he's not happy with it as he sends it, and he's not happy with himself at all, on any level, after he's sent it. If he were Alice, he'd be so goddamn pissed off; just thinking about the scenario where Quentin's next partner interrupts Eliot's life to ask for fucking _advice_ makes him want to breathe actual fire.

It's such a stupid idea, but he does it. He did it, and now it's done. Not like it's Eliot's first stupid idea.

“You're quiet,” Quentin says after a while.

“Yeah, sorry,” Eliot says. “I was just – thinking. Actually, I've, I've been – meaning to get your opinion on something Margo and I were talking about. What would you think about Margo adopting Ted?”

Quentin doesn't look over at him. He turns an aqua puzzle piece over and over between his fingers, studying its shape intently. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, that's a good idea, I think he'd like that.” So that...was easy. “You should both adopt him,” Quentin says abruptly.

“You know I can't,” Eliot says.

“No, I know, but. I mean, I wouldn't – I wouldn't sign anything for most people, but I would for you.”

“That's sweet of you,” Eliot makes himself say. He can play this off, he thinks. He can make it sound like he doesn't know what Quentin's really doing, how he's – cutting ties. Settling up with the house. “It's not necessary, though.”

“You're better at it, though,” Quentin says. “I mean, it just seems – fair. You're a better father than I am, it shouldn't – it shouldn't just be me because of an accident. You deserve – and you'd be – I think you'd be happy like that. The three of you.”

Eliot counts to ten. “I think you're wrong,” he says. “I think we're happier this way. The four of us.”

Quentin makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, like a growl. “Well, yeah,” he says, false and flat. “Yeah, great point. Obviously we don't want to screw up how happy we all are right now. What was I thinking.”

It's a rhetorical question. _Don't answer it_ , Eliot tells himself. _Don't answer it, don't answer--_ “You were thinking you could leave us after that and you'd feel less guilty,” he says. “Since you'd put your affairs in order and all.”

“You don't know as much as you think you do,” Quentin says, without heat. “Jesus, _nobody_ knows as much as you think you do.”

Eliot closes his eyes and leans his head on the back of the couch. “Okay, well,” he says. “I'm not better at it than you are, and I'm not doing that, so. Good talk. You want me to stay or go?”

It's quiet for so long that Eliot goes from not wanting to open his eyes to kind of being afraid to. Finally Quentin says in a quiet voice that reminds Eliot almost painfully of Ted, “I mean – don't you – want to go?”

Does he? Eliot can imagine getting in the car and driving and driving until he runs out of road. He can imagine having a drink or twenty, just pouring tequila down his throat until he can't fucking remember his own name, let alone Quentin Coldwater's.

That's. Not what he _wants_ , though, is it? He wants to be happy. He just wants everyone to be happy.

“I was going to play some before I went to bed,” Eliot says. “If that's okay with you.”

“Yeah, it's. Yeah, if that's what you want. That sounds nice,” Quentin says. He's only this meek after he knows he's fucked up. After he fucks up, he always backs off a little and gives them both room to breathe, which is good.

A lot of things about Quentin are – just really _good_ , even on the less-good days. Eliot reminds himself of that a lot.

Ted's Christmas gift for Eliot was a book of Disney sheet music, so he's been going through that lately. He plays Feed the Birds and Beauty and the Beast, Once Upon a Dream and Part of Your World, and then – at the last minute he's not sure if it's – weird or too much and he doesn't want to come across like he's being manipulative or attention whorey, but – he plays Candle on the Water because he knows Quentin loves it, and Eliot is too locked up tight and nervous to sing, but he plays it. He's terrified to even look over at Quentin afterwards, to acknowledge anything himself or pressure Quentin into....

He does look over his shoulder eventually. Quentin is still sitting at the table, leaning on one hand and staring blankly at the puzzle he's not touching anymore. He shifts his hand a little, like maybe he's using it to wipe his eye, and he says, “It's, um. It's barely ten....”

“If you're tired,” Eliot says faintly, “I think – you know, it's – fine if you go to bed a little early. I think – it'll be fine.” Quentin nods, but he doesn't make any move to get up. “Do you want...?” Eliot says.

“I want you to stay,” Quentin says. “Please – please stay. I love you, I just– I'm sorry. Please, I'm, I'm sorry.”

Eliot gets there as fast as he can. He leans over the back of Quentin's chair, wraps his arms around Quentin's shoulders from behind and feels Quentin's fingers dig painfully, desperately into the meat of his forearm. “I'm right here, sweet boy,” Eliot says against the top of Quentin's head. “I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

Quentin nods and digs his fingers down tighter. That's okay. Eliot wants him to hold on as hard as he needs.

 

The third week in March is spring break. At one point, Eliot had vague thoughts of getting them all out of town for a few days, maybe find a rental place on Lake Michigan and let Ted frolic in nature or some shit. But it doesn't feel doable, not with Margo working constantly and Quentin still ending each day utterly wiped out just by the effort of staying tethered into his body. Eliot doesn't even bother to suggest it. Maybe next year.

At the beginning of the week, though, the temperature jumps twenty degrees and the trees blossom all over campus and the goddamn birds start waking them up like it's a Disney movie every morning at six. One minute it's winter, the next it's spring – does it always happen overnight like that? Eliot's never really paid attention before, but he notices this time, mostly because he's just so done with the cold.

He wakes up on Tuesday with the birds yelling about their love lives and Fester walking back and forth over Eliot's back yelling about cat food, and he swears bitterly, if uncreatively, into his pillow. He hears Quentin mumble soothingly as he hooks an arm around Fester and drags him off of Eliot, and he keeps listening as Quentin and the cat argue under their breath. It ends in purring, as so many conversations with Quentin do. Eliot's irresistible boy.

Unfortunately, Eliot is awake now, and he rolls onto his side to inspect life. Life – looks okay from this angle, actually.

Quentin turns his head, with some interference from Fester's head wedged up under his chin, and smiles at Eliot – a soft, dimply smile that reaches his eyes and makes Eliot – whatever. Fluttery. “Morning,” Quentin says, and then his smile widens like gently spreading sunlight and he says, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I like looking at you,” Eliot says. “What's not to like?”

“Hm,” Quentin says. “I heard it was supposed to be nice today.”

“I heard that, too,” Eliot says. “We should take Ted to the park or something.”

“Good parents probably would,” Quentin agrees – at least, Eliot thinks that's an agreement. He watches as Quentin flexes his ankles and then points his toes under the blanket, then frees his hand to stroke Fester's neck. “Or we could just stay in bed forever.”

Flatly against the rules, but for once Eliot is tempted. Except that of course that's not an option; Margo's office is still open this week, which means that as good parents, they're obligated to do something other than literally nothing in the way of childcare. Even _moderately passable_ parents would probably need to get out of bed at some point.

Instead of any of that, Eliot says, “You look happy.”

“Do I?” Quentin says with a smile. “Well, it's. You know, I have a purring cat. It's a beautiful day outside. I'm in bed with a beautiful man – inside _and_ outside.”

“Ugh,” Eliot says, wriggling down so he can press his nose to Quentin's shoulder. “That's the cheesiest fucking thing you've ever said to me.”

Quentin laughs. It sounds amazing. Eliot could _cry_ , it sounds so goddamn good. “Do I detect a challenge? Because I think I could go cheesier.”

“Fuck, no,” Eliot says. “What have you done with my morose, overly cerebral boyfriend? He's a philosophy major, and he's highly sensitive.”

“He sounds insufferable,” Quentin says.

“Not as much as you'd think,” Eliot says, lifting his head for a kiss.

It's a good kiss. _It's supposed to be nice today_ , Eliot thinks, and he could almost cry, but instead he laughs against Quentin's mouth as Quentin dislodges a deeply betrayed Fester and rolls toward Eliot, his arm coming around Eliot's shoulders and his fingers tugging and tangling into his hair. Eliot runs his hand up Quentin's neck, pushing his head back just enough to make room for Eliot to shove his whole face right up under Quentin's jaw like the goddamn cat does, and the smell of Quentin's skin and the grate of stubble against stubble makes Eliot half-dizzy and entirely fucking _insane_ with need. “Q,” he mumbles, mouthing up to the hinge of Quentin's jaw, and Quentin sucks in a breath and nods eagerly in answer to the question Eliot can't pull himself together enough to ask.

“Let me,” Eliot says, pushing Quentin's t-shirt up to his ribs, flattening his hand across the soft dip of Quentin's belly.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, still answering what Eliot hasn't-- Still, _always_ telling Eliot yes, yes to everything, the easy asks and the impossible ones, the ones that are too terrifying-- It's yes. From Quentin, it's always, always yes.

“Let me suck you,” Eliot says. “Come in my mouth.” That's one of those easy ones.

“Yes,” Quentin is saying almost before the words are out. “Yes, yeah. Eliot.”

Eliot is vaguely aware that he should probably be – smooth or sexy or at least, like, _interesting_ or something, but he can't really – think. He just pushes away the blankets, curls his hand in the front of Quentin's flannel pajama pants and tugs down, letting the elastic do all the work for him. Quentin hisses as it scrapes past his cock, and Eliot pauses to kiss it while Quentin scrabbles unhelpfully to get the pants all the way off. His fingernails scratch Eliot's hand in his impatience, so Eliot guesses they shouldn't have skipped mani-pedis yesterday. “You're scratching me,” Eliot says, half muffled against the crease of Quentin's thigh.

“I know, I – could you _help_?”

“I need you to relax for two seconds,” Eliot says, getting a better grip on the pants and working them down Quentin's thighs. “This is happening, the window is not about to close.”

Quentin laughs breathlessly, cupping his hand over the head of his dick where it rests against his stomach. “I need you not to be a jerk,” he says, and the melody of it sounds just like when Quentin says _I love you_ ; only the words are different.

When Eliot starts to tongue Quentin's cock from the root, Quentin finally lets go, pushing his fingers into Eliot's hair instead. Eliot allows it, conditionally, raising his head briefly to say, “If you pull, you don't get to keep using your hands, understood?”

“I, uh,” Quentin says, licking his lips as his eyes darken and dilate. “You – may not be incentivizing what you think you're incentivizing.” Eliot smirks at him to make it clear that he knows absolutely everything, and then drops back down to _incentivize_ every beautiful _yes_ that he wants and needs Quentin to give up for him, right now.

Once he's given up _yes_ and _yes_ and _Eliot, yes_ and _oh, please, yes_ and he's let Eliot swallow down every sticky word and sate every last craving, Quentin lets himself be rolled over as he shivers and moans softly into the pillow, lets Eliot suck kisses over the shape of each bone in his neck and down between his shoulders, lets him print gentle bite-marks into Quentin's skin and slip a hand under Quentin's firm chest and his cock between Quentin's fucking perfect thighs. _Yeah_ , Quentin is still murmuring drunkenly, _oh, god, Eliot, I want you_ and _please, please, it feels so good_ , lighting up every inch of Eliot's fucked-up brain like gunpowder and halogen.

Even after he comes, Eliot can't stop kissing the curve of Quentin's shoulder, can't stop his fingers from stroking up Quentin's side and his back. He can't stop listening to the breathy, pleased noises Quentin makes while he's being soothed back down to earth.

“Are you making me breakfast?” Quentin finally asks, turning his head so that it's only partially buried in the pillow, and half his cutest smile is exposed to Eliot's fond gaze.

“Poof,” Eliot says lazily. “You're breakfast.”

Quentin laughs softly. “A-plus dad joke. Really high-quality stuff, I'm impressed.”

“Thanks, I try,” Eliot says.

“I know you do,” Quentin says, and he's still smiling at least a little, but his gentle voice is sober and earnest. “El, I know it, it doesn't always seem like it, but – I know how hard you try. I see – everything you do – for me, for all of us. I do. I know.”

Eliot buys himself a moment by kissing the back of Quentin's shoulder, until he's sure he can speak without a quiver in his voice. “Okay,” he says. “Well – my pleasure.”

A silent laugh jolts Quentin's body underneath Eliot's. “Yeah, I'm sure it's a real pleasure,” Quentin says, dryly but without the bitterness that sometimes coats his tongue when he's stuck on – things like this. “You can say it's hard, Eliot. It's okay for it to be hard, it doesn't take anything away from-- The opposite, really.”

“I mean....” It's hard, but. But he's not lying. There's pleasure in it, too – there's a whole world of pleasure in tenderness and vulnerability, in generosity and in _effort_ that Eliot is finally, at twenty-seven, developing a palate for. It's hard, but for once in his life, the last thing he wants is to quit. “It's not – all bad or anything. I do it because I want to.”

“I want to do more for you,” Quentin says. “You – I – it's so hard to keep hoping sometimes when.... But you make me want to try harder. You make me, just. Want so much – for things to change. I know they need to change.”

Eliot kisses Q's skin again, sweat-damp and smooth and faintly goosebumped. “Blueberry pancakes,” Eliot says. “And then the park.”

And then after one good day, maybe two. And then maybe – things change.

Of course things change. Things change, it's what things do.

For once, Eliot has that thought, and then he's just immediately...grateful. He's never before in his life been _so_ grateful for spring.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for discussions of suicide. Everybody lives, nobody dies. All my love to all of you, take care of yourselves.

Ted seems a little bit not thrilled about going back to school once spring break is over. And while on one hand, fair, school and all, the truth is that mostly Ted likes school. He's sullen when Margo tries to talk it up over dinner on Sunday night, and Margo gets slightly annoyed and gives up, which – while on the one hand, fair, talking to children about children things sort of sucks, it is technically part of the job. As the guardian who's been to therapy six entire times, Eliot guesses he's the one with marginally more expertise in – god, whatever. Feelings?

“Hey,” he says while he's micromanaging Ted loading the dishwasher with the dinner dishes. “You wanna... You're being kind of weird about school tomorrow. Is it just, like.... What's up with that?” Ted shrugs, but it's definitely a _please shut up_ shrug more than an _I don't know_ shrug. Eliot didn't learn that distinction in therapy; he's had to tutor himself through dealing with stupid men who won't say what's bothering them, and to be honest Eliot misses the days when he could just quit returning texts from guys who started being this much work. “Look, I'm not too good to bribe you,” Eliot says. “What would it take to get you to talk? Should we have chocolate milk?”

At least that gets a little bit of a smile. “We could have chocolate milk,” he says like he's doing Eliot a huge favor.

Eliot makes them both a glass of chocolate milk, and they retire with their after-dinner drinks to Ted's room; Margo is working in her room with the door closed, but still, it feels more private in here, like a Pikachu-themed therapist's office. Eliot sits on the bed and lets Ted sit on the beanbag that's usually the domain of either Margo or Q, whichever of them is up for bedtime reading on any given night. “So what's your problem with school?” Eliot says.

“School's okay,” Ted says. “But I just. I had a fight last week in the pick-up line. With some other kids.”

It doesn't make sense that Eliot's just now hearing about this; why wouldn't he have gotten called about a fight? “What kind of fight?” he says. “You're not in trouble, are you? I mean – are you okay?”

“Not like a fight with hitting,” Ted says. “Do I – have to tell you?”

That's – a weird question. Yes? No? “I mean,” Eliot says hesitantly. “I don't see how I could – make you tell me, but. I don't know, don't you think you might – feel better if you talked about it? That happens a lot.”

God, the lies he's told out loud with his actual mouth since he became a parent.

“There were these other boys,” Ted says, and he seems reluctant, but not exactly embarrassed. He's watching Eliot's reaction carefully, like he's worried how _Eliot_ is going to handle this. “They were making fun of-- They said I had gay hair because it was too long, and I said my dad had long hair, too, and then they said my dad was gay too because he wore a dress. But they didn't mean Dad.”

It's so _sweet_ ; he really is worried about breaking this news to Eliot. “No,” Eliot says. “They meant me.”

“I said it was for Halloween, and you can wear anything on Halloween, but then Miss Fen came over and asked if there was a problem, and. I didn't want to tattle or anything so everyone just left then.”

“You did the right thing,” Eliot says. Wait, that's – wrong? He's supposed to tell Ted to – talk to adults? Even though that never works? Honestly, how the _fuck_ did Eliot land in the position where he's supposed to know how to get through first grade in one piece? It's not like he ever managed it himself. “Look, I feel like – there's a lot to unpack here,” Eliot says. “First, I guess I. I'm sorry that this bothered you so much you're still thinking about it a week later. The good news is, most of this stuff, it – it blows over. You know, kids, they say shit, and then they forget about it, and. Hopefully that's how this goes down. If they bother you again, we'll – deal with that, I guess, but they may not.” Ted's not really the designated victim type; he's always gotten along with everyone so far, and Eliot doubts that's going to change. Eliot's no expert – well, maybe he's a little bit of an expert – but this feels more like ordinary kid bullshit than like a crisis to him.

“Yeah,” Ted says. “I don't usually play with them anyway. They're jerks.”

“Clearly,” Eliot says. “So, I guess I should ask – do you even – know what that means, what they were saying to you?”

“Sort of,” Ted admits. “I know it's a bad word.”

A lot to unpack. Eliot probably should've thought ahead and like, Googled this or something. Not like it wasn't an inevitable discussion, and it would be nice not to have to make it all up on the fly. “So, it is something they were saying to – upset you, to make you feel bad. So it's – bad, I mean, it's bad that they said it the way they did, but. God, okay. This is complicated. When people say someone's gay, that kind of – means two different things. There's the real thing it means, and then the stupid thing that little kids and some particularly shitty grown-ups think it means. So when someone your age says it, what they're probably trying to say is that, like – something a boy does is, they think it's too much like what a girl should do. So if they think long hair and skirts are girl things, or like – I don't know, what's the thing now? Unicorns? _Frozen_? Whatever girls are into, if they see a boy who likes it, sometimes they'll say that's gay. Which doesn't really make any sense, because – I mean, you know that's not what makes someone a boy or a girl, like what colors they like or what movies or how they wear their hair. Right?”

“Right,” Ted says. “I tried to tell them that.”

“I know,” Eliot says. “And maybe someday they'll be older and less dumb and they'll know what you mean, but I guess that's only so helpful right now. Anyway, the thing is, that's actually not – what that word means. They're saying _gay_ , but they mean _girly_ , and it's confusing because-- I don't want you to hear me or Margo or someone like that use the same word and think we mean it like – like a mean way to say that people shouldn't be girly, because when we say it, and when cool people like you say it, we mean something totally different. Because I actually am gay, but that doesn't mean I wear skirts or makeup or whatever – I mean, I do, but that's not what makes me gay, that's just. A little girly, and everyone is at least a _little_ girly. But I'm not gay because of that, I'm gay because – when I feel something for people – like, romantically, the way, the way adults do – those people are other men instead of women. And it's not a bad word when you use it that way, it's just. It's just a word. It's just what some people are like.”

Ted seems to take a minute to process all that information. Finally he says, “Do you mean like – kissing and touching in a bed?”

What Eliot really, desperately wants right now is some kind of panic button he can use to summon Margo, because this is _not fair_ , there is _no way_ he should be the only person responsible for this conversation. It has to be some kind of violation of their marriage vows; whatever happened to that journey they were supposed to be sharing? “Kind of, yeah,” Eliot says. “I mean, that's – part of it. There are a lot of parts to – to being in an adult relationship, not just those things, but. Those things, too.”

“Well, what about Mom?” he asks. “You kiss her, and sleep in bed with her, and she's a girl.”

“Yeah, that's – well, our situation is a little unusual,” Eliot admits. “Unusual for a gay person, at least.”

“Do you love her?”

“Of course I do. But there's – there's lots of different ways to love someone.”

Ted looks slightly frustrated by the lack of clarity involved here, which Eliot sympathizes with. If the kid only knew how many people before him had found Margo and Eliot equally frustrating and unclear – Eliot included, at one point in the not-so-distant past. “But you don't love her like – like true love? Like _The Princess Bride_?”

You know what? Eliot will take this lifeline, happily. “That's right,” he says. “Because even though I love your mom and I love living here with her, I would always – I did always want to have a man be my – true love. From as far back as I can remember thinking about things like that.” Not literally, of course. Literally, the words _my true love_ have never passed through Eliot's brain in his entire life, but – the principle is sort of solid. “And wanting that is what makes me gay, not what I wear or anything like that that I could – could just go and change about myself like getting a different haircut or whatever.”

“Do you think I should cut my hair?” Ted asks.

“I--” Eliot's watched enough kids' movies to know that the right answer is _no, be yourself, don't listen to people who try to change you_. But also, Eliot has – been a kid, and he's been a kid who would have done absolutely fucking anything to stop being himself and just have some fucking peace and quiet for once. “Do you like your hair the way it is?” he asks carefully. Ted nods. “The truth is, I just think it's – up to you, you know? It doesn't sound like you really want to cut it right now, but. Maybe at some point you'll want to, and that's. I think that's okay, too. I really think it's – okay to want to look like your friends or dress like them or whatever. Especially when you're young, it can be. Easier. And then as you get older, you'll develop your own tastes and your own style – or not,” he realizes, even as he says it. “You are your father's kid. Well, or maybe you'll meet someone with some taste who likes you enough to dress you decently. Who knows. But the important thing is – you're the person who knows how you want to see yourself, and how you want other people to see you. So I don't think you _should_ cut your hair, necessarily, but if you ever want to, it's nobody else's place to say you should or you shouldn't. Understand?”

“Okay,” Ted says, which Eliot thinks is an admirably diplomatic way of saying probably not, but please stop rambling now. Eliot finds this more than acceptable.

He doesn't really expect it to come up again. After the usual tv and bath and gummy vitamins and serious discussion about which book Ted wants to read with Margo (Fillory is on pause until summer, which is a plan that they're trying to make sound like it's going to be a thrilling summer-vacation journey and not just because maybe by then Quentin will have stopped randomly getting all choked up when giants make small friends or the Cozy Horse is mentioned in any context), Eliot sings Umbrella (he _does too_ like songs from this century), which is the only song in his repertoire that Ted seems to like singing along with (at least with the _ella-ella ey-eys_ ). When Eliot's getting ready to turn the light off after lullaby, Ted comes out with the “Eliot?” that usually means something weird is about to be asked.

“Yeah?” Eliot says warily.

“Is my dad your true love?” Ted asks.

See? It's always something _so weird_. “Uh,” Eliot says. “I – I mean, I think he is, maybe.” It's not the worst thing he could say, he guesses, but – he's not sure if either his therapist or Gomez Addams would find it totally satisfying. Eliot picks up Ted's bear and sets him up next to Ted's pillow, standing guard. “I'd rather kiss him than Princess Buttercup, at least,” he says, which makes Ted giggle and groan at once. “Are you still worried about him leaving?”

“No,” Ted says.

“Good,” Eliot says, giving Ted's hair a quick pet before standing up. “Don't worry about anything. Just get some sleep.”

He knows right away that Margo overheard, because when he steps out of Ted's room and mostly closes the door, she's hovering right there, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with gleeful suppressed mockery. “Bambi, no,” Eliot warns.

“Bambi, _yes_ ,” she says. “Say it again, I want to see your _face_.”

He rolls his eyes and heads toward the kitchen to prep the refrigerator oatmeal for morning. “It was in reference to an earlier conversation,” he says loftily, and then, deciding that a good offense is everything, he adds, “Jealous?”

“Gross,” she says, looping her arm through his comfortably. “I will throw you out of this house before I let you go around telling people I'm your _true love_.”

“You should appreciate what I've done for this family today,” Eliot says. “Do you know how hard it is to explain this–“ Eliot gestures grandly with his free arm at their entire apartment, and by extension their entire lives, “-- _this_ , to someone who has no frame of reference for sex? I get access to any and all pop-cultural tools at my disposal, or else _you_ can go explain to him why I'm gay but you're... you.”

“Oh, I don't think you'd like the way I would explain that,” she says. “Although I do agree that I'm very much me, you're right about that part.”

He makes her hold the cow milk while he digs further back in the fridge for the oat milk. She can at least be useful while she's being tiresome. “Not this again,” he says.

“You love me,” she says. “You _love_ me.”

“Yeah, it's an _eccentricity_ of mine,” he says.

With almost uncanny pleasantness, she says, “I'm going to make you _beg_ before I let you watch him fuck me. Try telling yourself you love me for my _inner beauty_ then.”

That's – not what Eliot tells himself. “Would you keep your voice down?” he grumbles. “You're gonna scar the kid.” She waves her hand dismissively in the general direction of Ted's room, all the way across the condo. “Is that, uh. Are we – reopening that conversation?”

Margo shrugs. “I don't know. It's been a while since we played doubles; do we not do that anymore?”

“You make it sound like we did it a lot.”

“That's because we did it a lot,” she says, which, well. _A lot_ is in the eye of the beholder, right? Eliot's not one to judge. “I'm just messing with you, you know,” Margo says. “Just because you like to share your hookups doesn't mean you want to share your snugglebunnies. Different rules, I get it.”

“That's – not a rule,” Eliot says. Fuck it, Eliot doesn't even believe in rules at this point. Where the fuck would he be in life if he followed _rules_? “That's not my rule, at least. But I'd have to. Talk to him, obviously. And now's not a great time.”

“No rush,” Margo says. “I'm not going anywhere, and unlike the two of you, I'm getting _closer_ to my sexual peak, not further away.”

“Did you just tell me I should take my threesomes where I can get them now that I'm past my prime?”

Margo gives him a sly smile and says, “I didn't, but it's really interesting that that's what you heard.”

Eliot pecks her on the forehead and says, “You'll have to learn how to play nicer before I let you loose on Q. He's sensitive.”

“I promise I'll nurse him back to health like a sweet injured bunny rabbit,” she says, smiling exactly like a fox. Eliot would find the whole thing concerning if it weren't so hot.

Okay, he finds it both.

“If you want to put your metaphorical tits away for a second,” Eliot says, “I can tell you about the problem Ted's having at school.”

And bless Margo, she can turn on a dime when she wants to; immediately she's all business, and they sit up in bed for quite a while, talking about everything. Margo, predictably, wants a meeting with Ted's teacher, the other kids' parents, probably Idri, and possibly a goddamn camera crew, tomorrow by lunch at the very latest. The longer she talks, the more Eliot becomes convinced it's a terrible idea.

“This is a resilience thing,” Eliot says. “He's going to be hearing stuff like this his whole life, and he needs to learn how to hear it without the world grinding to a halt. I'm not saying we pretend it's okay--”

“Oh, terrific,” she says. “I'm glad we agree on that, at least. So that's two votes for _not_ actively participating in the homophobic bullying of our own family, then, right?”

“ _That_ , that right there,” Eliot says. “Some kid he doesn't even like told him his hair looked gay. That is _so far_ from what homophobic bullying actually looks like, I don't even know how you can see it from here. If we teach him that he has to make a civil rights case out of any little comment, how is he going to learn how to choose his battles?”

“So we wait and do nothing until he gets his ass kicked?”

“I mean, I think we're capable of drawing a line somewhere in between _gay hair_ and _ass-kicking_. Look, you know I'm not going to let-- I promise if anyone lays a hand on him, I will let you set a small child on fire, okay? You can do whatever you want. I'll help you hide the body; I'll frame the milk carton. I promise. But he can't-- Bambi, he can't be the kid who runs and tattles every time he gets his feelings hurt. You know what happens to that kid? He doesn't win friends and influence people, I'll tell you that.”

Margo scowls at him. “Are you seriously sitting here and telling me you want this _little boy_ to learn how to just normalize what's basically just miniature toxic masculinity--”

“Yes!” Eliot says. “Because it is normal! And I'm telling you our job is to help him feel sad and angry about how the world is shitty and mean, not to hand him a spoon and tell him to scoop out the fucking ocean. Sad and angry is a reasonable way to feel about the world, and honestly if what you want is to make him non-toxic, then just let him be sad and angry. Teaching him that if something makes you feel bad you have to go to war over it is _literally what toxic masculinity is_.”

With all the high drama she can muster, Margo drops down flat on the bed and huffs at the ceiling. “He's practically a baby,” she says. “And you're– you count, too. Maybe _I_ want to go to war.”

“I know you do,” Eliot says. “And I'm sure you'd probably win. But then there would be another war, and another one, forever. I don't want him caught in the middle of all that. I'm not saying there's never going to be a time for us to get involved, but – I don't think he really needs us to fight for him. Not yet. Right now, I think he needs.... I don't know, maybe I'm projecting or something? But when I was a kid, I didn't want – my dad to make it all magically go away. Children are feral little monsters, that's a given. I just wanted to know that he didn't, like – agree with them.” Which of course he did, but that's neither here nor there. “The hard fact is, Ted's gonna meet assholes all his life who don't like his hair or his family or, I don't know, his taste in music; growing up is all about learning how not to care about that. What are we supposed to be teaching him, if not that?”

“That good people make things better by trying?”

“Oh my god, will you listen to yourself?” he says with all the affection in the world. “Since when are we _good people_?”

It gets her laughing, at least. “Should we get Q in on this decision?” she finally says when she stops giggling.

“No, you _cheater_ ,” he says. “Obviously he's going to fall for your _good fucking people_ line of crap.” But in all seriousness, Eliot does have a point, and it's not that. “We're the ones who do the hard parts, remember?” he says. “We're the ones who had a choice.”

She doesn't argue, which is Margo's way of agreeing. “How's he doing, anyway?” she asks. “I kind of miss his startled little face around here. He always looks like you've just pushed aside some foliage and discovered his hiding place.”

He doesn't look like that at all if you're not going out of your way to intimidate him, but Eliot's not going to argue about it. “He's okay,” Eliot says, although at this point he has lost his bearings so completely that he doesn't even know what _okay_ is anymore. Quentin's seemed happy enough during spring break, playing with Ted and Eliot during the days and then taking advantage of the peaceful lack of undergrads on campus to play catch-up with a lot of work in the evenings. That's okay, right? Normal, at least. “He's-- you know. He's Q.”

Margo gets up for the bathroom, and Eliot rolls over to plug his phone into the charger and send a quick goodnight text, which – ugh, yes, he knows is tooth-rottingly couples-y, but he's still working on easing himself off of needing three updates per hour whenever Quentin is out of his sight. It's a process.

He's distracted by a Gmail notification. _Re: I know this is weird_. He really – didn't think he was going to get a response to that at all. It's been over two weeks.

Eliot looks at the notification for a long time. He – shouldn't even read it, right? He was in a compromised state when he contacted her, and even then he knew it was – invasive. Sneaking around behind Quentin's back, trying to get people to, what? Share his medical history with Eliot? Share his _relationship history_? He should never have looked Alice up at all, never gone out of his way to drag her into....

It's too late not to send the message, but it's not too late not to read the response. Eliot deletes it unread and opens his texts instead. _Back to school in the morning_ , he types. _I'm going to bed early, so you're on your own for the night. Make good choices._

Almost immediately, Quentin texts back, _Okay, Dad_.

Well, that's really too easy, isn't it? Eliot texts, _I think you misspelled Daddy_.

After a few appearing and disappearing dot-dot-dots as Quentin tries to tik-tik-tik a response to that, he finally settles on, _I thought it was She Who Must Be Obeyed?_

Eliot really should look into corsets; probably someone at the theater knows how to get one fitted properly. _Obviously there's some confusion_ , Eliot types. _I look forward to us exploring this philosophical question in great depth sometime soon_.

 _My tutoring rates are pretty reasonable_ , Quentin has the audacity to tell him. Oh my _god_ , Eliot loves this boy. _Goodnight, gorgeous_.

 _Night, sweet boy_ , Eliot types before putting his phone face-down on the dresser.

He takes Margo's place in the bathroom, and when he's finished shaving and moisturizing and changing into the warm pajamas that he really needs to banish back into storage now that even the nights have lost most of their chill, he gets into bed and notices Margo grinning at him suspiciously cutely. “What?” he says.

“Us,” she says. “We are _fabulous_ parents, aren't we?”

“Well, maybe hold off on the back-patting just a little bit,” he says. “We have almost twelve years to go.”

“Until what?” Margo says. “Are we disowning him at eighteen for some reason?”

Eliot doesn't really know what he meant by that, except that eighteen has always seemed, in his mind, like – some kind of deadline. “Well, he won't really need _parenting_ by then,” he says.

Margo isn't smiling anymore – or, she is, but in a soft, shadowy sort of way that doesn't entirely count. “Eighteen is still.... He'll still need his parents, El.”

“When we were eighteen--”

“We needed ours,” she says. “We needed a lot of things we didn't get from them.”

“I guess,” Eliot says grudgingly. “I think we did all right on our own.”

She blinks at him, apparently at a loss for words. “I mean,” she finally says, “give or take a life-threatening drug problem and more untreated PTSD than a goddamn Navy SEAL, I guess we did all right.” She's – not wrong, but Eliot doesn't feel like saying so. “I understand what you were saying earlier about choosing our battles,” Margo says. Eliot's a little surprised that they're back to this topic, but he shifts around on his side to demonstrate that he's listening. “But I'm reserving the right to keep an eye on this, and you need to take it seriously when I tell you it's time, okay, sweetness? Because you know I adore you, but some of what you're saying isn't pragmatism, it's scar tissue. And I know the world doesn't roll out the red carpet for everyone – or really anyone – but I'm not going to teach him everything you taught yourself to get by. I'm just not.”

Eliot strokes a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Noted,” he says. He's not sure if he can find the words for anything else, so he leaves it at that. “Goodnight, _mamacita_.”

She flashes her smile at him in the dark, and it gleams like always. “Goodnight, bitch.”

 

Everything's fine.

And then suddenly it's not.

 

The last time he saw Quentin was on their usual Monday morning date, and everything seemed fine. They took Ted to Dunkin Donuts and then to school, and they got their nails done, and Quentin was fine – Eliot would even say cheerful, except that he did get very stroppy about the colonialist subtext of Babar at one point; they started out at Sherlock Holmes adapations, Eliot is pretty sure, and he spaced out a little bit in the middle, so he's not sure where Babar came into the picture and by then he was afraid to ask. But whether or not Eliot was completely following the thread, he knew for sure that he was dealing with the best possible version of Q, lively and wry and over-invested, punctuating his thesis statements with abstract hand gestures before scraping his hair back out of his face, stammering his way through words piling up on words while his thoughts came too fast to organize.

“Are they more or less racist than the scary foreign elephants in _Lord of the Rings_?” Eliot said, just to fuck with him. “Are all elephants racist? Is it like a Hannibal thing?”

“Oh my god, it probably _is_ ,” Quentin says. “Or like a, like a generalized fear of African, which Carthage and the Punic Wars, so I hadn't thought of that, but _yes_.”

“You're welcome,” Eliot said. He still wasn't more than thirty percent sure what the fuck was going on, but he knows that theories about _Lord of the Rings_ almost always get Q hot, so it was worth the risk.

He offers to drop Quentin off on campus and let him ride home later on with Margo, but he's left things he needs at home, so instead Eliot drops him off there on his way to bowling. Quentin unbuckles his seat belt and then leans across to press a warm kiss to Eliot's lips before he says, “All right, see you soon.”

“Call if you need anything,” Eliot says, which he doesn't really mean – that is, of course he means that Quentin _could_ call with something he needs, but he never does. It's just a thing Eliot says out of habit.

Other than a quick text exchange that night – other than Quentin's brief _Okay, thx, goodnight_ – that's it. That's all Eliot knows until someone knocks on his door around noon on Tuesday morning.

A knock on the door is weird in and of itself. They live on the third floor of a private building; there is literally nothing up here except for a hallway and two doors belonging to three adults who barely have any friends except each other. Even the _delivery people_ usually text them from the parking lot to come get their food. Even the Jehovah's Witnesses don't climb two flights of stairs. Eliot has no idea what to expect when he opens the door.

It's Poppy and another woman Eliot doesn't know – not really a woman, a college girl. “Hello,” Eliot says guardedly. He likes Poppy fine, he supposes, but he doesn't want her to – come in and kaffeeklatch with him or anything.

“Hi, I'm glad you're home,” Poppy says. “Is Quentin in there with you?”

“No,” Eliot says, trying to ignore the slow descent of his stomach toward the floor as Poppy and the girl exchange glances. “He should be on campus.”

“He wasn't in the office yesterday,” Poppy says. “That's not too weird, he kind of flakes on office hours a lot. But then Plum showed up today because he never came to his eleven o'clock, and they were, um. Well, that's – less normal.”

“He's canceled class last-minute before,” says, Eliot guesses, Plum. “But he always sends out an e-mail apologizing. We just thought it was really weird, so I went over to his office, and when he didn't answer Ms Kline's texts, she said hey, let's....” She trails off, frowning at something – something Eliot's face is doing, maybe, although he feels like he's not doing anything at all.

“His car's downstairs,” Poppy says. “If you could just.... I assume you have a key.”

“I have a key,” Eliot says calmly. He feels...so calm, unreasonably calm. “I'll check on him, thanks.”

Plum looks like she's ready to insist on coming with him or something, but Poppy touches her arm like she's moving the kid slightly behind her. “Can you take my number and text me after you talk to him?” Poppy says, and Eliot accepts her phone and uses it to send himself a message. “He'll think it's hilarious, how weird we're being,” she says as he does it.

Eliot makes a vague noise of agreement and hands her phone back. “Thanks,” he says again. “I-- I'll check on him. It's fine.”

Everything is fine.

The first thing that happens when Eliot lets himself into Quentin's apartment is that Fester damn near knocks him down, howling in outrage. His food and water are both empty, but when Eliot picks him up, he just makes himself dead weight over Eliot's shoulder, purring needily, which is a different kind of outrage than Fester shows when he tries to herd someone by the ankles toward his food dish.

Quentin's bedroom door is closed. Eliot balances this brick shithouse of a cat in one arm and walks slowly – _he'll think it's hilarious, how weird we're being_ – toward the door and opens it.

He can tell right away that Quentin is awake, curled on his side with the curtains shut and the dim blue glow from his phone coming from where it's propped on the pillow beside him. “Hey,” Eliot says quietly. “You know it's Tuesday, right?”

“I know,” Quentin mumbles, scrubbing his eye with his hand. “I think I – have the flu? I kind of, everything hurts, kind of.”

Eliot puts the cat down on the bed and sits down alongside both of them. When he puts the back of his hand against Quentin's neck, it does feel hot. “When did this start?”

“Yesterday, after you dropped me off. I got dizzy coming up the stairs, and I thought I'd lie down for a minute, but then it just got worse. I've been kind of in and out of sleep ever since.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_. Eliot puts a temporary leash on something that feels a whole lot like anger and says, “Okay, I'm going to get you some juice. Have you eaten today?”

“I couldn't keep anything down last night,” Quentin says.

“You know, you could've--” Okay, this isn't productive, and probably it should wait until Q's back on his feet, but – _Jesus Christ_. “If you'd said something to me, or even texted Poppy, we could've gotten your class canceled for you.”

“Yeah, sorry, I should've,” Quentin mumbles, and somehow that actually makes it worse.

 _Don't say anything, don't--_ “Yeah, you fucking _should've_ ,” Eliot says. “We thought you were _dead_ over here.” Quentin doesn't react to that at all. He does move his arm to make room for Fester as he crawls up over Quentin's rib cage and sticks his head under Quentin's elbow, still purring.

Fine. Whatever, he's – he seems pretty sick, honestly. It's not fair to make him focus on anything. “Stay here,” Eliot says wryly, then goes back into the kitchen to see what Quentin might be able to digest in this state.

He finds grapefruit juice, but no crackers, so he toasts a piece of plain bread and slices an apple and takes it all back in. He sits beside Quentin in bed, reaching over him to place the glass on his nightstand. “Come on, sit up,” he says. “You really need to eat and drink something.”

“I don't think I can,” Quentin says, but he struggles up to sit with his back against the wall. He looks pale. He really does look like absolute shit.

“I know, but nothing's not an option,” Eliot says. “If you can't keep anything down, we have to take you to urgent care or something and at least get some fluids in you.” Quentin scowls a little and takes a small, wan bite out of an apple slice. Eliot can tell this is going to go just great. “Did you take your meds last night?”

It's mostly a rhetorical question; Eliot is absolutely prepared for _no, sorry, I should've_ , or maybe _I just would've thrown it back up_. He's not prepared for Quentin to say, with perfect calm, “I threw them out on Sunday.” Like that's somehow just – a thing that rational people say.

“Are you – are you fucking kidding me?” Eliot says, and like a proper millennial, he has his phone in his hand and is Googling _antidepressant withdrawal_ before his plan advances beyond _step one: absolutely freak the fuck out_. “What is your fucking _problem_?”

“I'm not taking them anymore,” Quentin says. “They don't help, and I don't sleep well, my sleep has been completely fucked ever since-- They make me jittery and anxious, and they don't _work_ , I have the same moods as always. Medication doesn't work for everybody, and I just, I don't think it works for me.”

“Have you even talked about this to--”

“No, because doctors know _generally_ what these things do statistically, but everyone is different, and I'm the one who lives in this fucking body, _I_ know what they do to _me_.”

“ _Withdrawal symptoms become more intense before they begin to fade_ ,” Eliot reads loudly from his phone. “ _Users start experiencing dizziness, nausea, shakiness, and fever. Withdrawal symptoms typically persist for up to three weeks_.” Quentin groans a little and quits investigating the toast with his fingertips. “Okay, we're not doing this for three weeks. I have shit to do, I can't hand-feed you birdseed or whatever, so what we do now is get you up, get you dressed, and take you to campus health where, Lucifer willing, some kind-hearted doctor will write you a prescription for--”

“ _No_ ,” Quentin says. “I'm sorry, but--”

“--for a step-down dose of some kind, so you can go off of them like a mature adult who doesn't hate his brain and want it to fry itself. Baby,” he forces himself to add, because he's an actor, he can act like someone who doesn't want to fucking murder Quentin right now, “this isn't my first withdrawal party. They're zero fun, and I can't – I can't stand to just watch you try to slog through this shitty experience when you have actual help available and you're just too stubborn to take it. Do this for me, okay? We can talk more about the meds in general, but please, just take as much as your body needs to adjust.”

Quentin just... _looks_ at him, dull and flat and a little bored. Like Eliot is a stranger offering him unsolicited political opinions on the bus. “I'm not going to change my mind about this,” he says. “It wasn't a snap decision. I'm sorry, I know it's – it hit me harder than I thought, I thought it would just be. It doesn't matter, I just. I'm sorry I scared you. I just couldn't warn you ahead of time, or you would've freaked out.”

“Am I freaking out?” Eliot says. _He is absolutely freaking out._

Very slightly, Quentin cracks a smile. “I can't tell. _We thought you were dead, Quentin_ had a little tinge of hysteria to it, but I thought you bounced back pretty well with _I don't have time for this, I have shit to do_.”

“Well, let me tell you very calmly that we have four hours before I have to pick the kid up, so put your ass in some pants and you can call ahead to campus health in the car. Clock's ticking.”

“Sure,” Quentin says wearily, pushing the cat off his lap and struggling clumsily to the edge of the bed. “I'm so glad you could fit this into the schedule.”

“Next time you plan to do something monumentally stupid,” Eliot says, “I'm going to need it on the calendar with a minimum of a week's notice.”

At campus health, Eliot confiscates Quentin's wallet and takes his student ID to the desk, trading it in for a bunch of intake forms, which he sits down to fill out while Quentin perches with his feet on the damn couch like some kind of weird, oracular were-vulture from a Ray Harryhausen movie. “I can't believe your middle name is Makepeace,” Eliot says as he writes. “That's the WASPiest shit I've ever heard, and I'm from Indiana.”

“You've still never told me what the S stands for,” Quentin says.

“It stands for Shut the fuck up,” Eliot grumbles.

“You're so cute when you're worried about me,” Quentin says, exquisitely dry.

They don't have to wait very long before someone sees them, and in spite of Eliot's concern, Quentin doesn't dodge or dissemble over any of Dr. Sunderland's questions – it seems bizarrely easy for him to discuss his history and his meds and their side-effects, like he's just running down a grocery list or something else that carries absolutely no emotional charge whatsoever. He's never like that with just Eliot; he gets nervous and shifty and embarrassed when he talks about anything medical, and Eliot's always just accepted that as part of Quentin's general nervous embarrassment, but seeing him now it – retroactively hurts a little. Not that Eliot's insulted or offended, just. It pokes him in that tender spot that always aches a little for Q, knowing that those nerves are Eliot-specific. That Quentin worries about _Eliot_ , specifically – judging him? Looking at him differently? _Like you couldn't see how I was a freak or a mental patient or a fuck-up_ he remembers Quentin telling him in New York, and of all Quentin's multiple and colorful recurring anxieties, this one just gets Eliot where he's softest, the idea that Q has been worried about how much exposure it would take to change that.

For the first time in months, as Eliot sits back and watches Quentin pull out his little Moleskine, going through his days to analyze how his sleep and his appetite and his mood have been, Eliot can feel a little – unclenching throughout his body. A little surrender of – control? Responsibility? Quentin needs a _doctor_ to help him make sense out of all this, and now he has one, and he's willing to work with her at least to an extent, now that he's here. He's willing to work on this with a doctor, not with Eliot, because Eliot doesn't know shit about this; Quentin's right, he really, actually doesn't, he can barely keep his own issues in check most of the time, let alone solve Quentin's. This isn't Eliot's job. Eliot has a job.

He reaches over and takes Quentin's hand while Quentin and his doctor are talking. Quentin lets him, giving him a small, grateful glance as their fingers settle together.

Eliot has a job, and it's to think Quentin is beautiful and unbroken no matter what.

He can do that.

Dr. Sunderland looks severely unimpressed by Quentin's plan to give up his medication altogether, so already Eliot likes her. “People do this,” Quentin says. “People manage chronic depression without medication. Not everyone, but – I've tried the other way, and this works for some people. I want to try it.”

“It does work for some people,” Sunderland says. “I've been known to recommend that myself, to some people. People who are years out from their last major depressive episode, for example. People who have been on a low dose of antidepressants for an extended period of time and are coping well. Does that sound like you?” Eliot _likes_ her.

Quentin doesn't seem half so charmed. “It's my body,” he says. “It's my decision. However you think I'm coping, I am in my right mind, and I have a right to refuse a medication if I don't want to take it.”

She sighs. “Have you discussed any of this with your therapist?”

“I--” Suddenly Quentin looks a lot less sure of himself. He hunches down just a little in his chair, and his fingers tighten a little around Eliot's hand. “I haven't really – found a therapist here yet.”

Sunderland rubs the heel of her hand over her eyebrow and says something under her breath that sounds a lot like _Jesus Christ_. Eliot wants to leap to his feet and say, _I know, right?_ But he doesn't. His job is just to be here. But – _right?_ Finally someone gets what Eliot has to put up with. “Mr. Coldwater,” she says, “my strong recommendation, given everything you've told me, is that you combine antidepressants and regular counseling; I'm going to e-mail you a list of potential names and you can start looking for someone who suits your needs. If that's something that for whatever reason you won't even consider – even though it's my _strong recommendation_ – then I reluctantly admit that you might try relying on just _one_ of those things and see how that works out for you. Trying _none_ of those things and hoping you get lucky? Is absolutely against medical advice, but obviously within your legal rights, given that you haven't threatened to hurt yourself or anyone else. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“Yes,” Quentin says stiffly.

She waits to see if he's going to say anything more than that. He doesn't. “Okay,” she says, reaching for her prescription pad. “Now, you've been on a rotating series of antidepressants for nine years, so there's no earthly way I'm going to tell you that it's fine to quit them overnight. It's unhealthy and it's stupid, so let's do this the smart way.”

They leave campus health with a prescription for two weeks' worth of Lexapro, and a graduated schedule that should extend that into four weeks. By the time they get to Walgreen's, it's already there waiting for them, and they're not even running late to pick up Ted.

Everything's fine.

“You are going to take it, right?” Eliot asks while they wait, watching the orange-vested school staff walk up and down the line of cars, counting off the next set that will be allowed to pull into the circle drive and select a child who matches their hanging tag, like a weird game show from a dystopian YA novel.

“Yeah, I'm going to take it,” Quentin says, leaning wearily against the window. “I admit it, okay? I – didn't think I'd get that sick that fast. Obviously I need it. But I'm still serious about tapering off of them.”

“I still don't understand why,” Eliot admits. “If it's the side-effects, can't you--”

“It's not just that,” Quentin says. “It's not. It's. I just – need a change, you know? It's been nine years – almost ten years, really, since – I wouldn't say I was ever the happiest kid, but – almost ten years since things, since they really – fell apart for real. Another ten years is, it's not an option. Something has to change, and you can't just wish for that, you have to – _change_ something. I have to do something different from this, Eliot. I know it's hard for you to understand, but I _have_ to. This can't be my life.”

Eliot does understand that, he really does. So at least that's something he can give Quentin. “I don't want you to feel stuck anymore,” he says. “We'll – try some new things. We'll find something. I just don't want you to get stubborn and rule anything out, okay? The answer might be more than one thing, like Dr. Sunderland said. Can you at least tell me you'll keep an open mind?”

“Sure,” Quentin says. “Yeah, I'm – yeah. Everything on the table. Yeah.”

Ted is delighted to see both of them there, of course, and he demands that Quentin get in the backseat to sit next to him. Changing the seating arrangements holds up the entire Swiss-watch process of the pick-up line, and Eliot can feel the piercing hatred of all fifty highstrung Catholic moms waiting behind him. Whatever. Eliot flourishes under opposition.

“You know what we should do?” Eliot says as he pulls out of the circle. “Let's have ice cream.”

“Before dinner?” Ted says.

“ _For_ dinner,” Eliot says decisively. “Baby, do you think you can do that?”

“I don't know,” Quentin admits. “Maybe a little vanilla. I could try.”

Ted is both delighted and somewhat aghast, as if he's not sure if the End Times are upon them all. “Stop being so shocked,” Eliot tells him via the rearview mirror. “You know, I _used_ to be a hedonist. A _well-known_ hedonist. I don't want to say _legendary_ , but.”

“What's a hedonist?” Ted wants to know.

“Yeah, Eliot,” Quentin says, as innocent as Ivory fucking soap. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Eliot says with high dignity, “that if I wanted ice cream, I ate ice cream. And if I wanted to stay up late I did, and I went to parties even if I wasn't invited, and I wore whatever I wanted and I kissed all the boys I wanted, and nobody ever told me what to do.” It's all true except for the ice cream; once he figured out how many calories were in a bottle of champagne, he got pretty fucking careful about what else he ate in a day.

He didn't think he'd be trading in champagne for ice cream – not before thirty, at least. And yet here he is.

Ted, who has only ever known Eliot as the guy who enforces bedtimes, just outright says to him, “You're making that up.”

“I'm not,” Eliot says. “But it was a long time ago.”

“Well, if you had so much fun,” Ted says as if he's catching Eliot in a clever trap, “why'd you stop?”

There are a lot of lies Eliot could tell in answer to that, many of them edifying and instructive, good and noble lies to tell the little person whose character you're supposed to be molding and shaping. Instead, Eliot figures, what the hell. “Honestly?” he says. “Because I met a guy I liked, and I knew I'd have a better chance of going out with him if I were a little more – settled.” In spite of everything that came after, Eliot still remembers the warmth he felt when Mike turned those blue eyes on him and said so intently, _But I need to know there's more to you than your reputation_. It felt like being seen; it felt like someone putting into words Eliot's own highest hopes and greatest fears about himself, and sure, in _retrospect_ Eliot understands how manipulative Mike always was, but at the same time, he can't fully regret picking up that challenge.

“It was Dad,” Ted says smugly.

“It wasn't,” Eliot says. “This was before your dad. I had a life before the two of you, you know.” Ted looks nonplussed by the abstract concept of time, at least until the ice cream place is in sight, and then the whole conversation is forgotten.

They linger over turtle sundaes, except for Quentin, who settles on one scoop of lemon sorbet that seems to go down all right. He's still pale and moving stiffly like his joints ache, and he's wearing baggy jeans and a sweatshirt with one of those dorky giant dice on it that says _This Is How I Roll_ – specifically, Eliot is fairly sure, to spite him. Eliot is still massively pissed off, and worried, and tender, and exhausted, and he wants a fucking cigarette and – and he wants his stupid boyfriend back, the one who does card tricks and can't name a single Sondheim musical but can tell you his third-favorite Taylor Swift album and makes Eliot fluttery when he takes Eliot's hand and kisses the knuckle of each finger, one after the other. He just wants everything to be okay again.

For the life of him, Eliot can't figure out why Quentin is dragging his feet on this therapy thing. There's nothing Eliot wants more right now than to complain about this entire day to the guy he pays to tell him he's not being an asshole to complain.

When they get home, Quentin vanishes silently into his own apartment, and Eliot tries half-heartedly to care about homework folders. Margo is home shortly afterwards, _thank fuck_. “Hi, you weirdo,” she says suspiciously when he meets her by the door and grabs her into a hug.

“He stopped taking his meds and went into withdrawal,” Eliot whispers just above her ear. “We were at campus health all afternoon. I really need you to take over here so I can talk to him.”

Margo sighs, but not all that impatiently. She puts her hand on his chest and shoves him away, but somehow she manages to put enough weight and a little squeeze behind the gesture to communicate support. “Go,” she says, and as Eliot grabs up his keys, he can hear her say brightly, “Hey, Peaches. Have you had dinner yet?” Eliot is slightly curious to hear what Ted is going to say about that, but not curious enough.

Quentin is sitting at the table examining his puzzle when Eliot lets himself in. Eliot takes a seat and surveys the situation himself; it looks more or less like it's looked for the past couple of weeks. “It's really giving you trouble, huh?” Eliot says.

Quentin sniffs and rubs his hand over an eyebrow. “It's pretty hard to get a sense of the design. So I guess you were right again, weren't you.”

“Can I help?”

“Kind of defeats the purpose,” Quentin says shortly. “Anyway, I have a system.”

It doesn't seem to be working. “Maybe if you look at it more from, like, how the colors fit--”

“I said I don't need your fucking help,” Quentin says.

Which he did. That's true. And Eliot ignored him, and so he really has no one to blame but himself and there's no reason to get – angry. No reason at all. Very, very calmly, Eliot hears himself say, “Since. Exactly. When?” Quentin looks up at him, sharp and wary. “No, I'm serious,” Eliot says. “ _When_ did you not need my help, because the way I remember it, you've been asking me to fix your life for you since the very first--”

“No,” Quentin says. “No, I never asked you--”

“--Since the minute we met, you've told me you _need_ me to get you out of your head, you _need_ to feel normal-- You've been single for exactly ten minutes your whole adult life, and it's because you can't stand being alone, you _need_ someone else to--”

“ _No_ ,” Quentin says again, standing up. “No, the opposite of that. Eliot, I told you, I fucking told you from the very beginning – _I told you_ , don't try to fix me, don't save me, don't think you can change how things are for me, because it won't change and I won't be what you want me to be. All the advantages in the world, all the talent and all the support and the opportunity that's been handed to me, and I will _only ever_ be this shitty, broken version of who everyone thought I had the potential to be. I told you I would fuck things up and you would start to hate me, but you didn't listen. Of course you didn't listen, because you're _Eliot Waugh_ , and you can do anything and be anything and have anything you want, if you just want it bad enough. If you thought it would ever end any other way than this, then that's your vanity talking, Eliot. It was never me. I told you the truth.”

Did he tell Eliot the truth? Eliot – isn't sure. He can't think. Quentin has told him so many things _(I think you're so beautiful_ and _I know I'm going to scare you away_ and _you're the only reason any of this works_ and _I love you)_ that it's hard to – hard to sort them all out, hard to even remember who they both were a year ago.

He can't think. He can't remember how they started, who said what and who asked for more and which came first, Quentin's _please_ or Eliot's _let me_.

He can't think. All he can hear is _if you thought it would ever end_...

“Eliot,” Quentin says, and Eliot can't figure out his tone at all – he sounds sad and frustrated and confused and – basically everything that Eliot feels, but he has no idea what gives _Quentin_ the right to feel any of that. “I.... Say something.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Eliot says. It's weird that he couldn't seem to come up with anything on the spur of the moment other than. Like, fucking sincerity or whatever. It's not like Eliot at all.

It takes Quentin a goddamn eternity to answer. “No,” he finally says. “I mean – I don't want.... I'm not trying to.”

It's almost funny, the way he says that like he might be breaking up with Eliot accidentally, against his will. That seems like something that Quentin could potentially find a way to do, and – that's funny, right? A little bit. “By the way,” Eliot says, “you could get my name right while you're yelling at me. I mean, just as a courtesy.”

“I'm not yelling,” Quentin says, which is – _technically_ true. He gets a bottle of water out of the fridge. “Want one?” he asks, like this is a normal evening, a normal conversation.

“No,” Eliot says. “Thanks.”

Quentin leans on the breakfast bar and takes a couple of disinterested sips from the bottle. “I'm sorry,” he finally says. “That was – too harsh, I didn't really mean – I'm just not feeling well. I know you didn't do anything, any of the things you've done, I know they weren't about vanity. I know it's all because you care about me.”

Because he _cares_. Jesus. “Yeah,” Eliot says flatly. “I guess I got a little attached.”

“I owe you an explanation,” Quentin says. “About – just now, and about why I'm being so difficult about everything. It's not like I'm against therapy. I've just – I've just done that so much, for so many years, and after a while it feels like they're just – telling you the same things you already know. I really do already know all the things they're going to try telling me.”

“Like what?” Eliot says.

Quentin takes a slower drink, looking off into the middle distance like he's reading lines off a cue card. “That depression is a liar. That the things I feel don't come from reality – I don't come from some other world that I should want to get back to, and people do care about me and they understand me better than I think they do, and the world isn't ugly and sad and meaningless, not unless I make it that way. Things that feel like facts when I'm like this, they won't – won't always feel like that, because emotions come and go, and they aren't facts, and they don't control my choices and my actions. That the best way to take care of my long-term happiness is to make sure that I'm not letting temporary chemical states dictate my life and derail my progress toward my actual goals. That even if I have to slow things down sometimes or make certain accomodations, I have what I need to keep moving forward. That I should stay grounded in reality and not retreat into escapist fantasies to avoid dealing with painful sensations, because those are just sensations, and they only have the power that my fear of them gives them, and if I can stay present with them and accept them for what they are, they pass through me faster. I'm a really good student, El. I know this material.”

“So does any of it...work?” Eliot asks.

“I mean.” Quentin gestures in the air with his water bottle, apparently a reference to his whole life in general. “Sure. I'd be _really_ fucked up if I got dragged into – all of this and started believing all the things my brain tries to-- Some of the, the sensations, the emotional-- Some of it can get pretty dark. About how I can't be happy, and I don't deserve it anyway. Therapy taught me to question that stuff, no matter how intense it feels in the moment. How real it feels.”

That does sound helpful. It also makes therapy sound a lot like a graduate philosophy seminar – or at least what Eliot imagines one of those is like. It's funny that Eliot never really considered that before: that Quentin's curiosity about the nature of reality grew out of being thrown headlong as a teenager into the idea that reality might not be anything like his own perceptions of it. Eliot feels that familiar bruising on the inside of his ribs, over his heart. His sweet boy, always talking in circles around life, always required to doubt the simplest experiences, to double- and triple-check them against evidence from a more reliable source than his own brain. No wonder he always seems worn a little thin with the effort of existing. “What do you feel right now?” Eliot says.

“I feel like – like I love you. Like I can't live without you. But what if the reality is.... What if all I'm feeling is the dopamine, just another escapist fantasy? What if – I mean, maybe you're right, maybe I am just avoiding being alone, maybe I can't stand the idea of facing myself, so I run away. I'm good at self-soothing, I've always been able to, to shut down the things that hurt, I distract myself, and-- These things, Eliot – these things that have saved my life – should loving a fantasy, should that really be enough? Even if it's just – sensations, brain chemistry, if it isn't real at all?”

This is all so, so far above Eliot's pay grade. He's barely read anything more challenging than Buzzfeed since they forced him to read half of _The Grapes of Wrath_ in high school. He's not a deep thinker; he's sure as hell not a philosopher. But still. He can be smart when it's important. “It's enough,” he says. “I mean, by definition, if it saves your life, then it makes a difference, and – things that aren't real don't have power, right?”

“Of course they do,” Quentin says. “People will live and die for an attractive enough lie. All kinds of things that aren't real still have power.”

“But.” Christ, his head hurts. “But a lie is real. It's a real _lie_ , but it exists, right? Once you tell it, it becomes real. And – Fillory is real, because – it's a story people tell, that they share. Your father shared it with you, and you made friends because of it, and you're sharing it now with your son. That's not just in your head, all that happens in the real world. And maybe – yeah, maybe love is a big fucking chemical rush and a fantasy and a distraction from the bullshit parts of existence, but. But so what? Would we be better off without it? Do you honestly think we'd be more _real_? Because – I feel a thousand times more real than I ever did before I met you.”

 _I would live and die for you._ Is what Gomez Addams would probably say. But that's not – that wouldn't sound right, probably, coming from Eliot. It would sound like he was trying to play a role, and that's the last thing they need right now.

But he doesn't know, he doesn't know how to seem – passionate and, and – what, _romantic_? Romantic or whatever, and still sound like himself. Eliot doesn't know how to do any of this, and it's been a long, long time since he felt this helpless.

“I think,” Quentin says softly, “I just need. Space. Just some time by myself to calm down and get my thoughts in order and – and not react to things the way I'm reacting right now.”

“Okay,” Eliot says. “Can we – talk later?” Quentin nods, but he doesn't offer any insight as to what _later_ might look like. Just...later. Okay. Eliot stands up and says, “You know where to find me.” And then because – because he is trying, he adds, “Love you, okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin says, not looking at him. “Yeah, me, too.”

Unexpectedly, he walks back into his own house and finds Ted and Margo happily eating spinach salads together. “It's backwards day!” Ted explains with enthusiasm. “I had ice cream for dinner, so now we're having spinach for dessert!”

“I can see that,” Eliot says. He high-fives Margo as he walks past and says, “Nicely done, Mama.”

“I know, I'm amazing,” she says airily. “How are you?”

“Can't tell yet,” he admits. “I'll get back to you.”

And because Margo really is amazing on every level, she keeps Ted busy for the rest of the evening playing chess and generally being out of Eliot's way, so that he can lie down on the couch for a little bit and catch up on a couple of podcasts with his headphones in; the substance of them goes in one ear and out the other, pretty much, but it's still helpful in terms of stilling Eliot's nervous tension. He guesses he needed space too.

By bedtime he's got his pageant smile back on, or close enough to fool a six-year-old, and he lets Ted practice his coin trick for him (Ted hasn't quite figured out yet why _now you look over there_ isn't what his father meant when he tried to explain _misdirection_ , but they're all working on it) before Margo reads him some _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ (he's been insisting on Roald Dahl ever since he saw _Matilda_ a few months ago). When they close the door at last, it's – Tuesday night, it's just a regular Tuesday night, and everything's fine, everything's fine, everything's fine.

Margo slides her arms around his waist and leans into him, and he sighs out just a tiny bit more tension, scritching through her hair. “What do you need?” she asks him, which almost kicks Eliot over the edge into hysterical laughter, but he reins it in.

“Cigarette,” he says, so Margo goes for her purse. She only smokes a couple a day now, once at work and once in the car after work, but it feels so familiar, deep in Eliot's bones, to crack open the window and settle with Margo in the windowseat, sharing a lighter and a pack of Merit Ultras. (He doesn't like Quentin's brand as well, but he tolerates them. It's amazing what you can get used to if you try.)

He gives her the general rundown of the day's events, and what the doctor told them, and – not everything about his conversation – fight? – with Quentin, but the gist at least. Margo shakes her head a little and breathes smoke out the window. “What the hell did you do in a past life to have to put up with this shit twice?” she asks him.

“Guess this is what I get for being so goddamn nurturing,” he says. “I've really got to stop picking up strays.”

“Or else we're going to need a bigger farmhouse,” she agrees.

“I don't know, Bambi,” he admits. “I feel like it's possible that.... I mean, it's been almost a year. We're coming out of the honeymoon phase, and things are – getting real, and it seems like. Maybe that's too intense for him, or too heavy or something. Maybe that's – not what he really wants, even if he thought he did.” Things change. Things change. And it's no one's fault but Eliot's, because he knew all along. He always knew this would be a delicate operation, trying to cheat gravity – trying to have his Year of Quentin and all the good that came from it without hitting the ground at the end.

He knew, and he threw caution aside because – why did he do that? Because he got greedy, and he got arrogant; because he's _Eliot Hanson-Waugh_ and selfish is his personal brand and self-discipline is not part of his repertoire, and because he wanted this – wanted Quentin – so badly that it made him stupid and reckless and brave.

If this is – what it is, if this is how it ends, then.... It's no one's fault but Eliot's own.

“He wants _you_ ,” Margo says firmly. “A goldfish could figure out that the boy is crazy about you. I mean, he's crazy in general, but he's extra crazy about you.”

“I'm not sure it's that simple,” Eliot says.

Margo rolls her eyes. “Because you're dumber than a goldfish.”

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate your support while I'm feeling so fragile,” Eliot says. “No, really. I can't.”

Eliot takes another long drag and holds it in his lungs until it hurts, and it doesn't even hurt. He can't feel a thing. He's so fucked, he can't believe he let himself come this close to getting his heart broken a third time, who _does_ that? Margo's right, a goldfish has better self-preservation instincts than Eliot does.

“Do you want a drink?” Margo asks.

“No, I want ten drinks,” Eliot says. “But it's a school night. Tomorrow's just – a regular day, and I have to....” Make breakfast, drive Ted to school, go shopping, start the third bridesmaid's dress, he's got work tomorrow night, too. The world isn't going to stop for Eliot's heartache, any more than it does for Quentin's. The world doesn't care about either of them like that, or anyone else.

Maybe just one drink.

He's still on the fence about the drink as he stubbs out his cigarette on the outside of the windowsill and flicks the butt down to the parking lot below. He doesn't have time to make up his mind, because of the knock on the door.

It's nine-thirty on a Tuesday and nobody ever knocks on their door, but Eliot's still caught like a deer on the highway, _what if it's him?_ and _what if it's not him?_ But it has to be him.

And it is. Quentin has a key, but Eliot doesn't think he's ever used it; he always just comes in along with Eliot, or else they're expecting him and they've left the door unlocked. Eliot wonders if Quentin has lost the key, or if he just doesn't think he's allowed to use it now, and then he wonders why the fuck it matters. What matters is, it's Quentin, barefoot and rumpled and slouched in on himself, and it looks like it costs him real effort to look up from the floor, up and up until he can meet Eliot's eyes. He tucks his hair back and says quietly, “Can we just – start today all over?”

“Time is an illusion anyway,” Eliot says, and then they're each pulling the other in close, holding tight, desperately tight. Eliot anchors his arms around Quentin's ribs and spreads his hand out, rubbing over Quentin's shoulder blade. “How do you feel?” he asks in Quentin's ear.

“Guilty,” Quentin says. “Ashamed. Like – like a weak piece of shit who never deserved you.”

“Can I share something with you from my enormous store of life wisdom about men?” Eliot asks.

Quentin moves in his arms, almost a laugh. “Okay,” he says.

“Guys who act like you have to earn them or deserve them, they're pretty much always controlling assholes. You shouldn't be with those guys.”

“I wasn't planning on it,” Quentin says.

Eliot kisses his temple, and then he can't stop kissing Quentin's cheek and the corner of his eye and close to his ear. “Let me help,” he says. “Tell me what you need. I love you, I want to help.”

“I really wish you could,” Quentin says, his voice cracking. “I feel so-- I have everything, everything I could ever want, and I don't know why I still feel like this, why everything just feels so-- I keep thinking about that, that room that you told me about, the basement.” Eliot fights his every instinct to lock up, to pull away; the only thing he can't control is his heartbeat, and they're pressed so close together that he's afraid Quentin can feel it tick up. “And I feel like, like I've been in a place like that for so long, this dark, empty place – only for me, the door is open, and I should just be able to, to get up and leave, but I can't, I can't get out and nothing is keeping me there except me. And I wish I were like you, I wish I were as brave as you are, and I want to do what you did, I want to get myself out of there and be different, I want to – _I want to die, I want to die, I want to die_.”

“It's okay,” Eliot says, stroking Quentin's hair as he cries on Eliot's vest. “I know, baby. It's okay.”

“It's really not,” Quentin says, and still it's – there's almost laughter, Eliot can almost feel it vibrating against him.

“Well, it will be,” Eliot says.

“Are you telling me _it gets better_?” Quentin says with dry disbelief as he pulls away and wipes at his eyes with the wrist of his ugly sweatshirt.

Eliot could say that. It might even be true. But Quentin can be a little fussy about _facts_ and _logic_ , and so Eliot opts to stay with the simplest, most verifiable truth he can muster. “I'm telling you that you're not alone,” he says. Quentin processes that for a second, then nods. Okay, then. Now they're making progress. Okay.

Carefully, gently, Eliot herds him back to his place and goes straight for the closet. “Here,” he says, tossing a soft flannel shirt onto the bed. “Wear that.”

“We're going with wardrobe management, really?” Quentin says, but he starts to take off his sweatshirt anyway.

“Not really,” Eliot says, pulling Quentin's pilot case out from the back of the closet. “I mean, not as a primary strategy, no.”

When Eliot turns to drop it on the bed, he sees Quentin standing very still, bare-chested but hugging the twisted-up sweatshirt against him. “Where am I going?” he says, soft and resigned and weary.

Eliot resists the urge to fuss over him. This is – easier, he thinks it's going to be easier, if he just goes forward like it's the obvious, rational thing to do. “We waited almost an hour to see the doctor,” Eliot says as lightly as he can. “If you think I wasn't Googling _psychiatric hospitals near me_ the whole time, then you don't know me as well as you think you do.” He still has it bookmarked on his phone, and he pulls up the page with instructions about what to bring. Five days' worth of clothes. Toiletries, medications, pajamas. It doesn't say anything about books, for or against. Surely Quentin can take a couple of books – _children's_ books, even. What could be more wholesome?

“Eliot....” Quentin says as Eliot starts choosing shirts out of his closet. When they say five days, how are they factoring in the layering situation? Is this a rough guideline, or--? “Eliot. Listen to me.”

“Please don't tell me I'm overreacting,” Eliot says.

“No, I. I'm not telling you that. I just. Are you sure?”

Eliot pauses. Is he _sure_ ? No, of course he's not sure, he has absolutely no idea what he's doing right now. “I don't.... I don't know how else to....” He just knows this – this _has_ to be someone else's job. It can't be his. He loves Quentin so fucking much, but that doesn't magically make him know – anything. Anything at all.

“It's just.” Quentin stares down at the sweatshirt in his arms. “Once you see me there, it. It might be hard for you to unsee. It might change things.”

Finally. One thing he does know. “It won't,” Eliot says. “Not like you're thinking.”

“It's kind of unsexy,” Quentin says, attempting a smile and half-succeeding.

“Please,” Eliot scoffs. “Worst-case scenario, we develop a new kink. I'll dress up like a sexy nurse and take your temperature.”

“Now _that_ would be hard to unsee,” Quentin says.

“You'd love it,” Eliot says.

“No comment,” Quentin says. He finally drops the sweatshirt and reaches for the flannel shirt. So they're doing this.

Eliot is good at packing – it's just the Iron Chef version of wardrobe management, really – and they're underway in around fifteen minutes. “Should I say goodbye to Ted?” Quentin worries in the hallway.

“I think it would just upset him,” Eliot says. He hasn't really thought yet about how he's going to explain all this to Ted, but – he'll come up with something.

“And you'll feed Fester?”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Sure, maybe. If I feel like it.”

“Okay, okay,” Quentin says. “This just feels – too easy, somehow. I should be doing something. I should be helping more.”

“You're in crisis,” Eliot reminds him. “They try to make it pretty easy.”

“Am I in crisis?” Quentin muses. “I feel – sort of functional. By my standards, at least.”

“Sweetheart, I have a list on my phone right now of suicide warning signs, and you've checked off five of them in the last twelve hours. Call me a drama queen if you must, but I'm going to say this is a crisis, and I'm willing to bet the crisis center will agree with me.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, almost pleasantly. “Yeah, I guess I don't usually have more than a couple at a time.”

Eliot doesn't know if Quentin is in shock or what, but he stays calm the whole way there, like they're just heading out for a late supper or something. He spends most of the time fiddling with the playlists on Eliot's phone and refusing to land on just one. _Eliot_ is more in crisis than Quentin by the time they get into the parking lot.

But then it – gets real, Eliot guesses. He can see Quentin recede into the shadows, hunching down into the passenger seat as Eliot shuts the engine off. “Hey,” Eliot says, half-turning toward Quentin, putting his arm over the back of Quentin's seat. “I know this is a lot, and it's sudden.”

“Not really,” Quentin says. “I mean, it's. Not my first time.”

“Do you need a minute?”

“I don't know if that's going to help,” Quentin says. “El, I just – I don't want you to get your hopes up, okay? I think this is probably a good idea, but. I've done this before. They'll screw around with my meds and I'll see three different therapists and – there'll probably be music therapy and swimming and they'll bring in dogs at least one time. It'll be – fine, it'll. It'll help, for now. I just don't want-- If we pin all our hopes on this working, then what if, what if it doesn't-- It hasn't worked before. Not long-term.”

Eliot shifts his arm so that his hand rests on the back of Quentin's head. He can feel the shift in weight as Quentin relaxes into his touch. The lamplight from further down the row of cars filters in sideways through Quentin's window, and the lines of the shadows have a distoring effect. Eliot almost can't recognize this face that he sees every day, that he thinks about every hour. “It'll work this time,” he says.

“ _Why_?” Quentin says with a touch of exasperation. “What's different now?”

“I don't know,” Eliot admits. “But. You know, I was never – exactly a happy person, either. I didn't think that would ever change. And then I had the best year of my life, and I just feel like.... What the hell, maybe it's your turn now.”

“So it's – just a feeling?” Quentin says, like he doesn't know what to do with the very concept. Quite possibly, he doesn't.

“Yeah, sweet boy,” Eliot says, leaning across to kiss the side of Quentin's head. “It's a feeling.”

The front seat of a 2008 Kia Spectra is not the optimal snuggling environment, but Quentin is more determined than he gives himself credit for, and he manages to work his way more or less into Eliot's arms, his head leaning against Eliot's bicep. “I'm going to miss you so much,” Quentin says raggedly.

“I'll visit,” Eliot says.

“I know. It's not the same. You think they'll let me call right before bedtime sometimes so you can sing to me?”

Eliot has no idea, but he holds Quentin tight while he trembles on the verge of another round of tears, and he sings, “ _So needless to say, I'm odds and ends. But that's me, I'm stumbling away, slowly learning that life is okay, and say it after me – it's no better to be safe than sorry._ ” Quentin does cry then, which could be good or bad, Eliot doesn't know, he doesn't know and it's not his job to know. It's just his job to pick five outfits and be stupid in love, and both of those things he can do. He doesn't know if more tears are good or bad; he just keeps singing.

It must be good enough; it's good enough to get Quentin out of the car. Eliot holds his hand while they walk up to the front doors and get buzzed in by the front desk, but then unlike at student health this afternoon, Eliot hangs back with the bag while Quentin walks up to the woman at the desk. “Hi,” he says, and from his tone he might as well be at the head of the line at the post office, although Eliot can see how his fingers shake as he tries to get his university insurance card out of his wallet. “My name is Quentin Coldwater. I have a major depressive mood disorder, I've been erratic with my medications for the last few days, and I think I might be suicidal. I have a primary care physician but I haven't been seeing a specialist for the depression for the last couple of years. The last time I saw a psychiatrist was when I was a patient at Mount Sinai St. Luke's in October of 2018.”

He sounds so.... He can handle this. Eliot really just. Feels like he can.

There's nothing really for Eliot to do; they give Quentin a tablet to fill out some information and sign whatever consent forms are involved with committing yourself. After that, the nurse says she'll take Quentin's bag while Quentin goes to get his picture taken and his ID bracelet made up before seeing an intake doctor, and then it's – then the system takes over and whatever happens, but it happens without Eliot.

Quentin does pause long enough to hug Eliot warmly before he disappears behind the next set of glass doors and leaves Eliot in the lobby. “Thank you,” he says against Eliot's shoulder. “Thank you for – all of it.”

“I'll see you soon,” Eliot says, and then he commands his reluctant body to let Quentin go, and then he's gone.

There's another nurse at the desk, or maybe an intern or something – she looks insanely young. “Hey,” Eliot says. “Can I – I mean, how do I know when I can visit?”

“There aren't specific visiting hours,” she tells him. “You arrange that individually with his primary physician once they've got his schedule worked out. Usually they want about 72 hours before they set something up, so if I had to guess, probably Friday? But it varies, you'll really have to talk to his doctor. I mean, assuming he put your name down.” She leans over and checks out Quentin's tablet. “Are you Eliot Hanson-Waugh?”

“That's me,” he says.

“Okay. Well, you'll still have to call. But probably sometime Friday at the earliest.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Oh, and – can I bring anything? I mean, a gift?”

“Well, it depends on what kind of gift, obviously,” she says, like he's kind of wasting her time a little bit, even though it's the middle of the night and she's sitting at the damn reception desk.

“I was thinking about flowers.”

It must be the right answer, because she gives him a soft little smile and says, “Sure. They have to be checked over at the nurse's station, like for contraband and all that, but he can have flowers.”

So probably Friday. Flowers. This job is exactly in Eliot's lane.

Everything's fine.

 

When he gets home, Margo is in bed, reading on her phone in the dark. She shifts up onto her elbow, watching him as he unbuttons his vest and tosses it on the floor. “I figured you'd stay over there,” she says.

“He's not there,” Eliot says. “I took him-- He checked into--”

And he's been so good, he's been mostly calm and rational and reassuring, and he hasn't freaked out even slightly, but now his fingers won't work, his hands are shaking, and he's pulling in frustration on his tie and coming closer to choking himself than he is to getting it off. He can't talk about this. He can't go through it all again. He misses Quentin already, and he's scared that handing him off to someone else puts distance between them that they can't afford when Quentin is already thinking about space, and he just – hurts, it hurts and he's tired and he can't do anything and he doesn't know if he really believes what he told Quentin, about how the next year is going to be his year. Maybe the next year is going to be just like this, and they'll love each other and make each other cry and Eliot will never quite be able to catch him and never be able to let him go, either.

“Hey,” Margo is saying to him, sitting up in bed with her hands around his arm, pulling him down to sit with her. “Hey,” she says again, hugging him, and he wraps all the way around her and holds on, because she's his home, his foundation, his ten years of proof that people do get better and they learn to love each other better over time. He doesn't love her _more_ than he did at eighteen, but he loves her so much better.

She rubs his arms and his back until his breathing calms, and then she pushes him away and starts working on his tie and the buttons of his shirt. “What if I didn't do the right thing?” he says.

“You probably did,” she says. “You usually do.”

“That's not true,” he says. “I fuck up – I've fucked up so many things.”

She scoffs at him and gives him another quick hug. “Like a million years ago,” she says. “You're not that person anymore, El. You're always so careful now, like you don't even want to think about doing the wrong thing.”

“I think about doing plenty of wrong things,” he says.

Margo puts her fingers in his hair, cradling the back of his head, and brings his forehead down against hers. “You're a good man, El,” she says softly. “You're my fucking hero. The only thing I ever really did right in my life was pick you for a best friend.” Her other hand strokes idly down his bare arm, and it sends a crackle of half-familiar pleasure up his spine.

He probably shouldn't kiss her. It's not – wrong, Eliot doesn't think – but it's, it's complicated, and there's a risk associated, and. He's a careful person now, not the person he used to be, the person who grasped after any version of happiness he could get his hands on, who choked down _complicated_ and _risky_ and _bad for him_ like a starving dog until he actually started to believe it was food and not poison.

He shouldn't, but he does kiss her, because – she's Margo. She kisses him back, crawling awkwardly into his lap in a tangle of blanket and nightgown, and she smells like tropical flowers and a little bit of spice, a baking spice like nutmeg or cardamon. He groans into her mouth as he pulls her nightgown higher, palms her sacrum and then presses his hips up and his hands down to cup her ass. Her lithe little body is distractingly different from what he's used to, and the slight wrongness of it makes anxiety prickle over his arms and up the back of his neck, but the kind of anxiety that pulls a thrill along with it, interlocked sensations that make Eliot's skin hot and sweaty and his dick hard.

“Is this okay?” she asks when he tumbles them both to the bed, propping over her with one arm while his other hand fumbles at his belt. “I'm not going to get you in trouble, am I?”

“No, no, it's okay,” Eliot promises, nuzzling his cheek into the curve of her neck. “It's us, it's just us.”

It's so, so easy – _natural_ , as Eliot figures people have been trying to explain to him his whole life. They're both pretty slutty, so all the instincts are there to get them twisting and rolling exactly as much as required to get rid of what few clothes they're wearing, and then she's just there, hot and wet, and it's more effort for her to find a comfortable position for her legs than it is to take his whole cock all at once. “Fuck, Eliot,” she says approvingly, dragging her nails across the back of his shoulders and arching up against him. “Oh my _god_ , why did we stop doing this?”

“Because I kept coming around and thinking I had rights,” he says, and for the first time all day he can feel himself smiling, really smiling, and he wants to laugh and he wants to kiss her and she throws her head back on the pillow so he kisses her throat and laughs soft and breathless as he feels the staccato bursts of her _ah, ah, ah_ through the skin.

Even changing positions is easy, and Eliot suddenly finds himself on his back. He's indifferent to the change, although he dares to hope he'll end up with fewer werewolf scratches all over his back this way. He lets his eyes unfocus a little as he gazes up at her in the dark, and he reaches up to cradle her neck with one hand and gather up her hair in his other. Margo allows that useless little intimacy for a minute, then firmly covers his hand with hers and pushes it down along the underside of her breast and over her stomach. He brings the other hand down to stabilize her lower back while he uses his thumb to stroke between her folds, relying on having big hands as a substitute for specificity of knowledge.

He seems to do all right; it's not like he's exploring the vastness of outer space, after all. He's sure that Margo would let him know if he were way off base, and the way her thighs clench around his hips and she gets absurdly, unnecessarily wetter seems like the opposite of a correction. She's clenching hard around his cock, too, and moving rougher against him as she leans over and bites his collarbone, sucks low on his neck. He grabs her ass again as he feels himself tighten and tremble on the verge of orgasm, and then he's beyond the verge, and he feels things unwinding and pouring out of him that he didn't even realize you _could_ fuck out of your system. He's not even sure he can breathe anymore, he's so hollowed out.

When he comes back to the world of reason, he finds it strange that the thing he's most aware of isn't Margo's warmth draped across his body – it's the room. They've shared this bed for months and Eliot never thought much about it, except that the companionship was nice. Before that, they'd only slept together twice since they moved into this place, once on the living room floor and once over a table after hours at The Cottage. Now that Eliot thinks about it, nobody has ever fucked in this bed, in this room; it was an unspoken but necessary contract between them, that neither of them ever brought anyone over to their place. It kept the lines bright and clear, between who belonged here (them) and who didn't (everyone else). Even Quentin has barely ever set foot inside this room, and the only time he slept here was on Christmas, when Eliot was so shaken up that he needed medical-grade doses of being held and petted. But there was nothing untoward about that night, nothing but comfort.

It feels stranger to be naked and sticky and marked-up in his own bed than it does to be here with Margo in the same condition. That's interesting, Eliot thinks. He tries to tell Margo about it, but he can't quite come back from the dozy, thick-headed state he's slipped into. “Fine,” Margo says with a kiss to his cheek. “But we're trading places. You can sleep in the wet spot.”

That's fine, he thinks about saying as she crawls over him and lands on the other side. He does manage to reach out and skim his hand over her ribs and her waist, and he wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but he can't really focus his thoughts.

When he wakes up again, it's because Margo is disturbing the equilibrium by getting up and moving around. Eliot does a quick mental scan of his body; he's a little unpleasantly sticky, but less unpleasantly sticky than he probably would be if he'd slept with a guy and then passed out without any clean-up. Other than that, he feels – good. Maybe the guilt will kick in later? Or maybe not. “What the fuck are you doing up this early?” he mumbles.

“Going to the drugstore for Plan B before work,” she says. “You're lucky I feel sorry for you, or I'd make you come with me and share in this beautiful heterosexual mating ritual.”

Eliot blinks at the ceiling a couple of times while accessing the meaning of all those words. “I thought you were – on something,” he says.

“Not since January,” she says. “I didn't get my implant replaced, remember?”

He does remember now. She's putting on her shoes and getting ready to stand up from the edge of the bed, but Eliot catches her by the forearm and says, “Wait. Wait, shouldn't we – talk about this?”

Margo looks back at him, eyebrows up. “About what, exactly?”

He remembers – not just that she didn't get the new implant, but why she didn't. “I mean,” he says. “I know you want.... What about just, just – waiting and – we could wait and see.”

“See if I'm _pregnant_?” she says, all but openly laughing at him. “Sweetness, you're the most ridiculous boy.”

“Well, I mean, why is it ridiculous?” he says. “We've been keeping the option open. You said you wanted to have whatever kids you were going to have before thirty. If we want to start trying, eventually we have to – actually start trying.”

Margo leans in and strokes her hand over the side of his face. “I think about it, too,” she says gently. “What our kids would be like, you know? I like to imagine me, except a six-foot-tall glamazon version of me.”

Eliot smiles half-heartedly. “Okay, but what if it's a girl?”

She acknowledges his joke with a flash of smile, but she looks serious again when she says, “It's not the right time. I have a lot going on at work, and you know you couldn't put that kind of attention into a new baby while you were still dealing with Q.” Eliot glances away from her. He can't say that if they wait for Q to be okay, they might be giving up on this forever. She probably knows anyway, but it feels cruel to let her read it in his eyes. “Let's talk about it next year,” she says, and all he can do is nod. It's not like she's wrong.

The good news, though, is that there will for sure be a next year. Nineteen was Eliot's Year of Margo, but even though that year was special, it was far from singular. She's his ten-year girl, his forever-girl. They'll talk about their options next year. They'll _talk_ next year, and every year, and they'll have each other no matter what. Alpha and omega.

Quentin....

There will be a next year for Eliot and Quentin, too. Or at least – that's the feeling that Eliot gets when he thinks about the future. They got through yesterday, right? And yesterday was – really fucking hard.

But still, but still. They didn't hit the ground yesterday, and they won't today, either. So maybe they won't hit the ground this year at all, and that buys them another year. And soon it's not flowers on visitors' day, it's a flower garden on the sunny side of a farmhouse, and they'll plant perennials and fill the whole house with them, year after year.

 


	14. Chapter 14

EIGHT-ISH A.M.

 

Eliot wakes up with Margo's hair up his nose, which is typical, but soon after that he's aware that something is off. The room, Eliot realizes, is far too bright to be his; he's positively soaked in the summer sunlight that's streaming in through big rounded windows. It's definitely off, but his dozy brain can't make sense of this mysterious turn of events until he dials in on the sound – the low hiss of the ocean below him.

Now he knows. It's a hotel suite in Avalon, New Jersey – Eliot and Margo are in one queen bed, and Ted is starfished out to take up the maximum amount of space in the second. Eliot lies there and listens to the surf for a minute or two, enjoying the delay between confused half-consciousness and the need to organize his thoughts for the hectic day ahead. Right now he can just be a cat, basking in the sun, dreaming of fish.

It feels good. It's the first weekend of June, and life is good.

He finds his motivation to get out of bed when he realizes that if he moves now, he doesn't have to fight anyone for the bathroom. Their bags are piled up in the front room, between the kitchenette and the loveseat where, Eliot discovers, Quentin is awkwardly bunched up with his head on the arm and his neck at a weird angle. Eliot's tempted to let him sleep – hectic day and all that – but he's worried about literal spinal damage, so he pads closer and closes a hand over Quentin's shoulder, shaking him slightly.

Quentin makes a mumbly noise that probably began somewhere in his brain as a word and opens his eyes. “Wake up, Buttercup,” Eliot teases softly. Quentin makes another noise that is much more definitively a groan. “On a scale from one to 100, how drunk are you?” Eliot asks.

“Forty-two,” Quentin grumbles, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to scrub at his face. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty,” Eliot says. “Ish. Successful bachelor party, I gather.”

Immediately, Quentin looks guilty. “I – kind of ditched that.”

“You know you're the best man, right?” Eliot says. “You're very much supposed to attend the bachelor party.”

“I made an appearance. And then I went – I mean, it was mostly his lacrosse friends, and – Julia's party had board games and strippers.”

“Really?” Eliot says. “I thought she was your one cool friend.”

“I...have no idea what gave you that impression,” Quentin says. “I won the Jenga tournament, by the way.”

“I've never been more proud,” Eliot lies sweetly. “Aren't you going to tell me about all the strippers?”

Quentin rubs his eyes again, but the gesture doesn't fully obscure his shy little grin. “I may have exaggerated, there was just the one stripper.”

“Was he good-looking?”

“I mean,” Quentin says. “He was a professional stripper, so like – I think that's the job?”

“Was he better-looking than me?” Eliot specifies.

Quentin's shy grin is a thousand times cuter when it's directed right at Eliot. “You're both good-looking in different ways,” he says.

That, in addition to just the overall Q-ness of him, earns a kiss on the forehead. “Are you nervous about today?” Eliot asks. Quentin nods briefly, but he doesn't seem to want to dwell on it, so instead of pressing the issue Eliot says, “I was on my way to the shower. Interested?”

Quentin glances from the bathroom door toward the bedroom, and for a moment he seems like he might be very interested, but then he sighs a little and says, “No, it – seems awkward. Thanks, though.”

Once more, Eliot kisses Quentin's forehead and strokes the hair at the nape of Quentin's neck; he cut his hair last week in preparation for this event, and at first Eliot found it all but intolerable, but he's been adjusting steadily; it helps that Quentin's hair is still thick and soft to the touch, and it helps even more that it exposes his face. He looks older this way; he looks – objectively more handsome, should Eliot be inclined to take the _objective_ view. “What kind of day are we going to have today?” he asks softly, just like he does every day now.

And Quentin smiles at him and answers, just like he does every day, “I don't know. Let's find out.”

It's the first weekend of June, and the sun's been up for hours over the shoreline. Everything glows. Everything is fine.

 

TEN A.M.

 

Eliot has reservations at the hotel restaurant for brunch, which somewhere in his tender, hopeful heart he had believed would help motivate everyone to get dressed, organized, and out the door in a timely manner, but it's ten sharp and Eliot is sitting alone in the lobby taking an online quiz (“Choose Five Eighties Action Classics and We'll Tell You Which Brooklyn Nine-Nine Character Is Your Soulmate”). So it's going to be that kind of day.

But no. He's not going to be negative like that. He's practicing letting other people manage their own affairs, particularly the ones who are grown adult people and not actually a pile of clumsy, adorable puppies. If they start brunch late, they start brunch late, and that is, as Penny is fond of telling Eliot, _literally only as big a deal as you want it to be_. Yesterday they were navigating airports and the train and a hotel in an unfamiliar city, and everything had to be a big deal. Today is a different situation. Eliot can make a different choice.

The boy at the host stand is a sweet little round-faced blond who keeps staring over at Eliot and then looking terrified when Eliot glances back. It's activating a very strange combination of urges in Eliot, but so far Eliot's innocence kink is winning out over his paternal instincts, so he supposes he's not fully ancient just yet.

Or maybe it's just that the past few weeks since Quentin came home they've been doing this careful, deliberate starting over thing, like they've circled back to that time in the very beginning where they were both pretending they could _take things slow_. They've gone on dates – dates that began and ended fully clothed, no less. They've spent whole nights talking, and whole nights kissing, and whole nights doing both of those things. They've had sex, but it's been different somehow, fueled by a kind of amazed curiosity about each other's bodies and responses, rather than by an intense need to grab each other and hang on.

It's been nice, but it's also been a long, slow tease, like downshifting to late-night soft-core after you've learned how to find the real porn. Yeah, the soundtrack and the lighting and the balancing act of revealing and concealing – Eliot understands the erotic appeal of all that, and it's entirely satisfying for a certain kind of mood. But he's still noticing more and more that he's kind of never not horny, hungry on a base level for something he hasn't allowed himself to have in what's starting to feel like a hell of a long time.

So yeah, the kid is whatever, he's only passably attractive and Eliot will 100% not remember that he exists by this time tomorrow, but that low rumble of malnourishment is reminding Eliot right now of how much he likes that particular energy – the stolen glances, the blushing and looking away, the uncertainty and the want both focused on Eliot at the same time, equal parts _I've never_ and _if you asked me I would_. He lets fragmentary fantasies drift through his mind, imagines himself gesturing with nothing more than the crook of his fingers, imagines getting blown right here in the lobby of this expensive hotel by someone who craves Eliot's validation as much as the pleasure, or more. He wonders if the kid is a virgin, and it's pleasant to realize that it literally does not matter, because he certainly can be in Eliot's head.

He wonders if Quentin would pretend to be one for Eliot, and he can't help smiling at the absurdity of posing it as a question. Of course Quentin would do that. He'd do it for Eliot even if it didn't get Quentin himself off, but in all seriousness, of course it would get Quentin off.

Eliot sighs and shifts around in his chair, cracking his lower back slightly. Air travel really is shitty; if commercial airplanes are built for any human body, that hypothetical body is not six foot two and somewhat excessive of leg. He's stiff and he's hungry and he's not _not_ horny and he quit smoking – _again_ – a couple of weeks ago and he is really, really trying to frame things positively but Charles fucking Boyle is _not_ his soulmate in any universe. He was hoping for Amy; Boyle is entirely the _wrong kind_ of high-strung super-nerd for Eliot's tastes.

The distraction he needs comes along when the elevator doors open and Ted comes barreling out, shouting Eliot's name. “Hey, could we act like it's not your first time in public, please?” Eliot laughs as the kid collides with his knee.

“What kind of voices should we be using?” Quentin says as he comes along behind.

“Indoor ones,” Ted says with a long-suffering sigh. He sets up a monologue about which breakfast foods you can have with strawberries and which are not good with strawberries, and Eliot takes advantage of the time when his input is definitely not needed to stand up and take his first good look at Quentin in his suit. It's light gray, the white shirt open at the throat, and there's a little boutonniere made of a sand dollar, a spray of blue dried wildflower, and a blue ribbon that Eliot adores; it adds a little _beach_ to the beach wedding. Best of all, the damn suit _fits_ Quentin, and Eliot expresses his approval by pressing a hand to his heart and leaning back slightly like he's staggered by the sight. Quentin rolls his eyes, but his smile is honest and pleased. “Can we?” Ted says.

“I don't know, I'll think about it,” Eliot says automatically. Either Ted will bug him about it again in a few minutes and he can figure out what they're talking about, or the whole thing will be forgotten and it won't matter. Eliot is _very good_ at parenting, actually. He leans down to give Quentin a quick little old-person kiss and says, “Did you get that tailored?”

“Yeah, I know you think I'm completely hopeless, but I can make a slight effort once or twice a decade,” Quentin says. “I mean, I'm going to be in pictures and everything.”

“You shouldn't have spent the money,” Eliot says. “I'd have done it for you.”

“I know, but you were busy finishing the commission, and – anyway, I thought it might get a nice reaction if I surprised you by being able to dress myself.”

“Well, I don't mind it once or twice a decade,” Eliot tells him with mock sternness. “As long as you remember who reigns supreme over your closet.”

“I won't forget,” Quentin says, and there's oceans under the surface of it, far more than Quentin's slight smile betrays. Eliot feels the pull viscerally, the slightest thrum at the low end of Quentin's register that functions like the crook of a finger summoning Eliot closer, coaxing that familiar _mine, mine, mine_ out of Eliot's dumb animal parts like a predator's purr.

Ugh, Eliot's never going to be able to control himself for a whole entire day with Quentin in a _tailored suit_ and a _haircut_ and _looking happy_. Measures will need to be taken. Eliot just isn't quite sure what measures, yet.

The restaurant's host speaks up, pinched and sour in a way that Eliot feels slightly guilty about enjoying so much, and says, “If your party is complete, I can take you to your table.”

“Not yet,” Quentin says with an absent glance in the direction of the host stand. “We're still waiting for our wife. I mean – I mean for his, for my, my friend's wife. Okay, please stop,” he adds under his breath to Eliot, pretending that rubbing his eyebrow will conceal the adorable way he's blushing.

“I can't,” Eliot says.

“Just don't tell her I--”

“Oh, I'm going to tell her.” That's a given.

Quentin sighs. “If I get through today, I'm never drinking again,” he says.

“ _Eliot_ , the _strawberries_!” Ted says in exasperation.

“Oh my god, yes,” Eliot responds in the same tone. “For Christ's sake, you can order strawberries on anything you want, I literally don't care.”

Well, Eliot's okay at parenting.

 

ELEVEN THIRTY A.M.

 

Eventually Margo swans into the picture and eventually they get seated and served, and Eliot finds his sunny mood restored once his blood sugar is up. He tries not to have a heart attack when the bill comes, but he reminds himself that when you factor in that their hotel is paid for, it's still a cheap vacation.

After brunch, Quentin is swept up and confiscated for wedding-party business, and the three of them go for a walk to kill a little time and hopefully distract Ted, who desperately wants to go down to the beach and make a giant, sandy mess of their cute wedding outfits.

Distraction works to an extent, but they still end up arriving early for the ceremony because they can't think of any other way to fill the time. They take three folding wooden chairs toward the back, and the only other people near them are an older couple one row behind and a few seats over, which is close enough for Ted's purposes. “Hi,” he says, turning backwards on his knees and waving at them. “My name is Ted Coldwater-Waugh, what's yours?”

“Shirley Ames,” the woman laughs, “and this is my husband Chuck. You have a very big name for such a small person.”

“It's my real name,” Ted says, producing his creased-up wedding invitation from the pocket of his little suit jacket to wave in her direction. “It used to be just Ted Coldwater, Coldwater is my dad's name, but Waugh is part of my mom and Eliot's name, so it got added when I got adopted – she's my real mom, adoption is real.”

“Of course it is,” Shirley says.

“Here, look where it's written,” Ted insists, stretching half his body over the back of the chair to extend the invitation to her.

“Pretty sure she believes you,” Eliot says.

“It's his first piece of mail with the new name,” Margo explains. “He's excited.”

They're nice enough to play along, taking a look at Ted's invitation and pretending to find it all very impressive. “It says R for my middle name, that's Rupert, the same as Rupert Chatwin from _Fillory and Further_ ,” Ted explains. “And my mom's middle name is Grace and my dad's middle name is Makepeace and Eliot's – Eliot, what's your middle name?”

He has just one moment of – something, some involuntary closing of the throat around this bitter thing that he's choked down for so long. It's brief, though. This is only as big a deal as Eliot wants it to be. “Shannon,” he says.

“Shannon? That's a girl's name!” Ted says, already laughing like he's waiting for Eliot to break character and admit he's teasing.

“It sure is,” Eliot says instead. It comes out easily, so small a thing once Eliot makes it small.

“Oh,” Ted says with belated concern for Eliot's feelings. “That's okay, though. It's not bad to have a girl's name.”

“Thanks, kid,” Eliot says, and then his role in the conversation is done. Ted returns his full attention to the old couple, who listen with polite, confused nodding as Ted explains that his father is in the wedding and then begins to describe in the vaguest possible terms how airports work, and trains, and then with a great deal more authority, what strawberries are good on.

Fortunately by the time he gets around to the plot of _Detective Pikachu_ , the seats are starting to fill up, giving Chuck and Shirley bodies to hide behind. Margo coaxes Ted to sit down for real and play some game on her phone with her for the few minutes they have left until the wedding starts.

It's a nice enough wedding, Eliot supposes; it's under a canopy that ripples noisily in the breeze but also shields everyone from the direct sunlight, and even though Eliot is pretty far back, there's a good view of the ocean and music from someone playing Spanish guitar. The bridesmaids are wearing turquoise, and they come down the aisle space arm-in-arm with the groomsmen; last in line is Quentin, escorting Julia's little sister who, at the end of what was apparently an extensive process of negotiation among the Wicker family, stole Q's original spot as maid of honor. There are six attendants on each side, which feels excessive to Eliot, but maybe it's normal among people who have friends and family that they can tolerate being around; Eliot doesn't recognize any of them, of course, except for Q and Alice, who's third in line on the bride's side. Not to be petty, but Eliot's a bit relieved that it wasn't Q who had to escort her down the aisle.

“Which one's Alice?” Margo whispers in his ear, because she's always here for the petty.

“Blonde, glasses,” Eliot murmurs back.

“With the rack? Damn,” Margo whispers. “Your boy really bats out of his league, doesn't he?”

Eliot considers kicking her ankle, but he's matured so profoundly in recent months that he hates to lower himself. “You know I don't respond to sports metaphors,” he says instead.

He gets a little restless during the talky parts, and he envies the six-year-old, who can play muted video games during the ceremony without social consequence. From this angle, he can't even get a good look at Quentin, which is a shame. Eliot's been hungry just for the sight of him since Quentin's been back, taking every opportunity just to.... He doesn't know. Reassure himself that Quentin is real, that he's really home? To store him up, hoard every possible minute of him in case....

He won't have Quentin for long enough. That's always been his fear, and it always will be, but – in a different way now. He doesn't worry that Quentin will get bored and move onto someone who comes from money and went to college and invested his youth wisely instead of squandering it on a failed acting career and a dysfunctional relationship with alcohol and a torrid string of inappropriate affairs, or someone who has something interesting to say about any one of Quentin's interests, or even just – someone who doesn't struggle so hard to be half as honest and as vulnerable as Quentin is every day of his life. Now Eliot just worries that a lifetime, no matter what a lifetime ends up looking like for them, still just – won't be enough.

A lifetime. It's the strangest thought, really.

Margo slips her hand into his halfway through, and it calls up an unexpected memory – sitting just like this, hand-in-hand with his girl on their folding chairs in last summer's heat. A funeral instead of a wedding. He remembers how oppressive it felt, being forced to think about – a family ending, a helpless little kid with nowhere to go, about the fucking _unfairness_ of life and death. He remembers being a person – it wasn't that long ago, but it feels from here like being a whole different person – one who moved through life like the undead, who'd spent a quarter century cutting off his own blood supply, chasing the relief of numbness. A person whose earliest memory was a fucking funeral – was being called a _brave boy_ because he was too stunned to cry.

God, that person. Talk about batting out of his league; what the fuck did Margo and Quentin _see_ in that person? Potential, Eliot guesses. And he guesses sometimes that's all it takes.

 

AFTERNOON SOMETIME

 

There's an open bar on the hotel's back deck, and all the cake and candy that little monsters can scam. Ted has joined a nomadic pack, _Mad Max_ style, and good for him. The photographers still have their claws in the wedding party, and Eliot has a little pang of sympathy for Q, who doesn't like crowds, or being stuck in one spot, or having his picture taken.

“So is this the reception?” Margo asks him, leaning on the rail of the deck at his side. Her glass of rose matches her pink and gold dress very satisfyingly, and Eliot rests his arm behind her to give her something that's not a plank of wood to relax against. “Or is the other thing the reception?”

“I think this is the reception,” Eliot says. “I base this on the fact that there's a wedding cake. Tonight is just – a party, I guess.” It's not a bad idea, for the size of the event and the size of Julia and James's extended family. A receiving line and some photo ops and a cake, then everyone gets to power-nap or at least get out of their dress shoes for a while before the people who aren't young enough or old enough to call it a night come back for the dancing and the serious drinking.

“Do people do all this for their families?” Margo says, using her wineglass to gesture to the reception as a whole. “Or is this – romantic? I can't always tell.”

Eliot thinks about it for a moment. “Mostly the first one, I think,” he says. “I mean. Parts of it are romantic, I guess, but not most of it. The vows, maybe. The first dance. The first kiss.”

“We did all that,” she says, and she's right, they did. Was it romantic, when they did it? Eliot can't always tell, when it comes to him and Margo. “You could....” She trails off, frowning at the string quartet.

“I could what?” Eliot says.

Margo shrugs and starts fiddling with the gold chain that's anchoring her long sundress behind her neck. “I should've thought about metal and sunlight,” she grumbles. “I'm going to get a third-degree burn from this fucking thing.”

“Well, beauty is suffering,” Eliot says lightly.

“Would you shut up for a second, I'm trying to tell you something.”

Literally _what_ , she wasn't saying anything? But it's pointless to argue, so Eliot just swallows a sigh and says, “I'm sorry, Bambi. Go ahead.”

She downs the half-full glass of wine in one swallow and says, “Look, it was always just a stupid piece of paper for some dickhead of a judge, and now it doesn't matter. The adoption is signed, it's done. I'll always have Ted, and you could – you'd be in the same position no matter which of his parents you were married to. If you want this – if you want the real thing....” She ends with a shrug.

Eliot doesn't know what to say, really. He's never found the words easily, not when it matters. Instead he puts his hand gently on her upper back, then slides two fingertips under the chain, soothing the warmly indented marks on the nape of her neck. She isn't looking at him. Maybe that's easier for both of them. Eliot leans closer and kisses her hair where it's swept up and coiled on top of her head. What would Gomez Addams say?

Nothing that Margo would appreciate, probably. “If you're trying to get rid of me,” he murmurs into her hair, “you're going to have to work a lot harder than that.”

“Bitch, I was being selfless,” she says, leaning into his touch.

“It's not your color,” he says. “You know, we've been to two weddings and a funeral this year. That's three-fifths of the way to a really fantastic British movie.”

Margo makes a derisive noise. “I can't fucking stand that movie.”

“What?” Maybe Eliot _should_ consider divorce more seriously. “It's maybe the best romantic comedy of all time, how can you not like it?”

“I guess I just don't get as excited as you about movies where all the straight people get married and the queer people die.”

“Okay, but – then his husband reads the poem, and it's the best part of the whole movie.” Eliot only ever watches _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ when he's drunk and alone, which is why this information about Margo comes as a shock to him now. He only ever watches it when he's allowed to cry, which until recently was _drunk and alone_ exclusively.

“Fuck a poem,” Margo says.

Okay, it's a _good poem_ , though. Not that Eliot knows fuck-all about poetry, but come on. “Well,” he finally says. “You know, it was – made in a different era.”

“Fuck a different era,” Margo says decisively. “In the best romantic comedy of all time, I promise you, we live.”

“So what is it?” Margo's hangover-morning pick is always _Die Hard_. Margo likes the Coen Brothers and David Lynch and _Beetlejuice_ and _Inception_ and _Escape from New York_. Margo is not a rom-com kind of girl.

She thinks about it, though. “I don't know,” she finally says. “Maybe it hasn't been made yet.”

 

TWO P.M.

 

The air-conditioned hotel room is a balm to all of them, wilted and sweaty as they are from hours in the heat; even Ted seems a little subdued as he gamely tries to explain exactly which other kids are going to be at the pool. “Uh-huh,” Eliot says from flat on his back, observing the ceiling fan. “Sounds good.”

Quentin helps dig Ted's swimsuit and a juice box out of the luggage, which gives him another direction to be looking in when Margo whips off her wedding-guest attire and reveals that she's been wearing her bikini under it the whole time. Quentin never seems to know exactly what he's supposed to do when Margo is in a state of dishabille, which Eliot thinks is just precious. His shy little unicorn. “Now,” Margo says loudly, “we can't stay at the pool forever, okay? Because we need to come home and wash up and get dressed again for the party tonight. Right?”

“Right,” Ted says. “But can we stay until--”

“We can stay until _four o'clock_ ,” Margo says. “That gives you two hours to play with the other kids, and then at _four o'clock_ , it'll be time to get out of the pool with no complaining and come back to the room. When are we coming back to the room?”

“Four o'clock,” Ted says dutifully.

“ _Four o'clock_ exactly is when we'll be coming back here,” Margo repeats. “Everybody understand the schedule?” Eliot adds his very serious murmur of agreement to the group consensus, smiling gently up at the fan. He loves his girl so much. He'll spend the rest of his life trying to deserve her.

The rest of his life. His lifetime, this is Eliot's life. Sometimes he can't recognize it, any more than he can recognize himself in the mirror. He's been telling himself for so long that he's surviving an ugly and unjust world; he barely knows what to do with a life that might actually be beautiful.

“You look like you're thinking,” Quentin says to him when they're alone in the room. “What are you thinking about?”

Eliot rolls to his side on the bed, propping up on one elbow and casually extending one leg while bending the other; these ivory pants are the most beach-formal thing he owns, but they're just this side of too tight. They've been a nuisance all day, but now he's watching Quentin watch him like Eliot is the only fresh water on an ocean planet, and it's completely worth it. “You, getting a lap dance from a stripper,” Eliot half-lies. He wasn't thinking about that _just now_ , but he has been, off and on, since this morning.

Immediately and predictably, Quentin's face flushes. “Well, I, I didn't, though,” he says. “I mean, I – didn't get--”

“Still a pretty thought,” Eliot says.

Quentin makes a highly skeptical noise as he kicks off his shoes and sheds his jacket. Eliot rolls over easily when Quentin climbs onto the bed alongside him and goes in for a kiss. “I played Jenga most of the night,” Quentin reminds him between soft kisses. “And I missed you. You want to know something embarrassing?”

“More embarrassing than how you just admitted you went to your friend's bachelorette party and spent the whole thing playing Jenga and missing your boyfriend?” Eliot says. “I don't know how much more than that I can handle.”

Ignoring that, Quentin nips lightly along Eliot's jaw and says, “When I came home I was, um, you know, the kind of drunk that makes you think that really stupid things are really smart? And I was – thinking about you, and I had – I still have those pictures of you on my phone, and I tried....”

“Sweet boy,” Eliot purrs. “Is that why you were on the couch, were you jerking off to pictures of me with my skirt flipped up?”

Quentin smiles lopsidedly against Eliot's cheek. “Well, I was trying,” he says. “I was also the kind of drunk that makes that – not that realistic a goal. But I wanted it. God, I wanted you, I always want you.”

Instead of _you have me_ , Eliot says nothing at all. He just traces his fingers down Quentin's hip, then back up the curve of his ass, and he watches with the bare suggestion of a smile while Quentin's gaze flicks again and again to Eliot's mouth. Eliot can wait. They have the time.

Carefully, Quentin presses a sweet kiss against Eliot's mouth, or really mostly against Eliot's lower lip. Eliot smiles his approval, but in defiance of every instinct he has, he doesn't take hold of Quentin and move him. He just waits. He meets Quentin's uncertain gaze, and he smiles his encouragement. Quentin kisses him again, a little more firmly, and this time when he shifts back he reaches for the top button on Eliot's vest and pulls it loose.

“Do you want...?” Quentin says, because of course he has to be the one to fit words to this, to logic it out when presented with something as unfamiliar as Eliot not telling him what to do. “I mean, is this okay?”

“You want me, don't you?” Eliot says. He waits for Quentin to nod, even though it's not in doubt. “Well, here I am, handsome. What are you going to do about it?”

It seems to serve as permission, in Quentin's mind, because he moves more efficiently now, popping each of Eliot's buttons loose with determination, then slowing down to unknot Eliot's tie more carefully and slip it free through Eliot's collar. Eliot maintains his composure right up until Quentin unbuckles Eliot's belt and slides it loose, then hooks his thumbs in Eliot's shirt to pull it free of his pants; the incidental drag of Quentin's fingertips trailing up Eliot's side hits him all the harder because they're both still mostly clothed. “Shit,” Eliot hears himself say breathlessly. “Q, don't stop.”

That's as much encouragement as Quentin needs. He pulls Eliot free of his shirt, kissing Eliot's neck and downward across the curve of Eliot's pectoral muscle, and he isn't shy at all about the way he opens Eliot's pants, working them just far enough down that Quentin can shove his own hips against the smooth bulge of Eliot's cock underneath his half-revealed underwear.

Nevertheless, an audible sigh of relief escapes Quentin's chest when Eliot grabs him by the hips and flips him over, and Quentin immediately locks his legs around Eliot like he's preventing Eliot's escape. “Oh, now you're right where you want to be, aren't you?” Eliot murmurs, rocking lazily against Quentin's body while his lips hover along the shell of Quentin's ear.

“I just, I wasn't sure what we were doing?” Quentin says, and there's a little more self-consciousness in his smile than Eliot likes to see, so Eliot kisses that particular expression away.

“You were just making me feel pretty,” Eliot assures him, petting through his hair.

“Oh,” Quentin says, clearly relieved. “Oh, well – you are – pretty. Gorgeous. Sorry, I – do I not say that enough?”

“What's _enough_ , really?” Eliot says, nosing Quentin's cheek playfully. “But I liked that; it feels good when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Eliot smiles and kisses him warmly. “Like the way you always look at me,” he says. “Now let me take care of you, okay, sweet boy? How do you want this? Tender, romantic lovemaking, or hot and needy fucking, or you want me to wrap this tie around your wrists and then _wreck_ you?”

Quentin makes a soft, delighted noise like a kid at Christmas. “Second one, please.” Eliot's face must betray his surprise, because Quentin cocks his head slightly and says, “Why, what were you expecting?”

“That you'd want three but ask for one,” Eliot admits.

“Surprise,” Quentin says. “I'm in a hurry, okay? I just want you to– God, I'm so ready for it, Eliot.”

“Mm,” Eliot says, and he wants to hear more about that, but it's hard to stop kissing Quentin. When he finally manages to pull away, he says, “Tell me what you're ready for, sweet boy. You can have it, anything you want, just. I want you to tell me.”

A fine, thin shiver runs through Quentin. His voice is faint when he answers, but not with nerves. “Ready for your cock. I want you to put it – wherever you want, on me or in me. I love how, how it feels. When I make you come.”

“Oh, you're so good at that,” Eliot lilts, nuzzling down Quentin's jaw. “Making me come.” It's funny when he thinks about it. Eliot's spent so many years protecting himself, pushing guys away as fast as he can pull them in, using every trick in the book to keep his power even as he lets them have his body. He never knew it could be this _hot_ – the trust thing. He never even knew what a heavy burden he'd been carrying, all those years he spent without feeling free to say something as basic as _I like what you do_ , let alone _I like you_.

Somehow, for some unholy reason, Quentin is still wearing clothes, but Eliot doesn't mind taking responsibility for fixing that problem. He manages to get his own pants off in the process, and by the time he ends up straddling Quentin's waist, Quentin's eyes are fixed firmly on the tent in Eliot's briefs in the most flattering way possible. “See what you do to me?” Eliot murmurs, reaching for Quentin's wrist and curling his fingers around it, tugging his hand closer. “Come on, baby, feel it. Feel how hard I get, with you between my thighs.”

“Oh,” Quentin says breathlessly, even before he makes contact. His hand fumbles a little as he strokes up Eliot's covered cock, but then he flattens his palm out and rubs again with the heel of his hand. “Are you – are you going to fuck me with it?”

Eliot runs his knuckles gently down Quentin's cheek. “Is that what you want?” Quentin nods without hesitation. That hadn't really been on Eliot's mind – there's something untoward, in Eliot's opinion, about fucking where someone else has to provide housekeeping services – but since when has Eliot done the reasonable thing? When his heart and his cock and Quentin Coldwater all gang up on Eliot like this, reason never really stands a chance.

 

AFTER THREE

 

“Where are you?” Eliot murmurs when Quentin's hand on his arm falls still. The skin of Quentin's chest feels cool under Eliot's cheek, damp from the washcloth. Quentin feels like an oasis from the heat, cool and blue and restful. It's not a new feeling, but it's nice every time.

“Nowhere,” Quentin says. He sounds a little surprised.

Eliot smiles and gets a little chest hair up his nose. He doesn't mind. “Nowhere is the best place to go in the summer,” he says. “Perfect setting for doing nothing. Are you nervous about tonight?”

“No,” Quentin says. “I don't know. Nervous, but not.... I don't _know_.”

“Hey.” Very much against his instincts, Eliot pushes up onto his elbow. But at least there's a reward for his effort; even with his little frown of frustration curving Quentin's mouth downward, it feels – just so good. To fill Eliot's eyes with his face. “Hey,” Eliot says again, kissing Quentin's cheekbone. “You're okay.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “Yeah – sorry, I. More than okay.”

“You'd tell me if I hurt you, right?” Eliot says. “I know we went a little faster than usual, and it's been--”

Quentin smiles and lifts his hand, stroking his thumb lightly down the dimple in Eliot's chin. “It's definitely not that,” he says. “It hurt, but the good hurt. I guess I'm just. Like you said. Nervous.”

“About the toast?”

“And about tomorrow. And just – it's a lot. Weddings are a lot. But that was-- That helped. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Eliot says, settling back into Quentin's arms with an idle kiss just above his nipple. Eliot lets his eyes drift shut, swimming in the softening afternoon sunlight, the ache in his muscles and the taste of Quentin's skin still caught on Eliot's lips. “I love you,” Eliot murmurs. Quentin closes his fingers in Eliot's hair, holding on. “Does it – bother you?” Eliot says. “Or – I mean, if you – if you knew for sure that you'd never have one of these yourself, would that... How would you feel about that?”

Total word salad, but fortunately Quentin's pretty good at making sense out of Eliot's post-coital ramblings. “You mean a wedding? Jeez, I. I don't know, I don't really. Think about that. I mean, I definitely wouldn't want one like this.” Eliot chuckles lightly, because yeah, the idea of Quentin trying to wrangle caterers and florists and thank-you notes and receiving lines and photographers-- Eliot can just imagine how _that_ would all wind up. “But I guess I always thought I would get married. Not even that I wanted it, really, it just seemed. I don't know, like what adults do. They fall in love and get married and start families.”

Eliot wonders idly what it would be like, to spend your whole life believing you were – normal like that. Believing that normal rules were meant for people like you. Nice, he guesses? Reassuring? Hopeful? Not that hope is exactly Quentin's strong suit. “Two out of three ain't bad?” Eliot suggests.

“Two out of three works for me,” Quentin says. “And I mean, honestly? If someone gets the wedding and someone gets fucked like _that_ on a regular basis, then I definitely chose correctly.”

Eliot laughs softly. “Hot and needy was the right call, huh?”

“How could it not be?” Quentin says wryly. “You're hot and I'm needy, it's right in our wheelhouse.”

“I reject your binary,” Eliot says.

That leads to an unexpected silence in the room. Eliot settles a hand on Quentin's warm thigh and presses firmly, a trick that sometimes works to ground Quentin into his body when he's spiraling off into a different universe. When Quentin speaks again, there's humor and sadness and so much aching tenderness to it. “Do you need me, El?” he says.

Reflexively, Eliot kisses Quentin's ribs. But that's not an answer, and they both know it.

Does he _need_ Quentin? Without Quentin....

Well, Eliot would go on, wouldn't he? If he had to. He's picked himself up and gone forward under worse circumstances – days and years when no one loved him and no one protected him and nothing made him hopeful. Days and years that felt unbearable. Moments when death felt easier than living, but Eliot lived, and stood up, and got stronger. Made himself beautiful just to spite the world's ugliness. Turned up his shine in defiance of a world that would have willingly snuffed him out and forgotten him.

He doesn't need Quentin. He doesn't need love or friendship or family or happiness, not the way that Quentin needs those things. Despair isn't Eliot's _preferred_ state of being, but he can survive it – can and has and, if necessary, will again. He's proud of that, sometimes. Sometimes it feels exhausting. But it's who he is, and he knows it, and he thinks that Quentin knows it too.

But however true that is, there's another truth he carries deeper inside his flesh and bones, hidden away in the place that words never quite reach, where Eliot can only ever feel the things that strike deepest – sound and silence, line and color and balance, things he can touch and taste and hold in his hands. The things he believes in.

“I knew this guy in Los Angeles,” Eliot says. “Not a boyfriend or anything, a guy I worked with. He'd been a roadie all his life, and now he was working the lighting rig for this outdoor theater where I did a summer Shakespeare program. He had interesting touring stories, you know? And he used to tease me about how – how actors think they're such hot shit, so irreplaceable, so talented. But I remember he said, _But you know, kid, without us, you'd just be stumbling around yelling your lines in the dark_. And I think.... There have been actors longer than lighting rig guys, you know? We could do it without them. But that doesn't mean he was wrong.”

“Is this a metaphor?” Quentin says. “Am I your lighting guy?”

“You're my light,” Eliot says. “You're.... Without you, I'd just be...shouting my lines into the dark.”

“That,” Quentin says with careful, quiet intensity, “is the cheesiest fucking thing you've ever said to me.”

Eliot laughs, burrowing down into the cradle of Quentin's arm. “Yeah,” he says on a contented little sigh. “This feels like rock-bottom for sure.”

 

SIX-SOMETHING P.M.

 

“This is the best party I've ever been to!” Ted enthuses as he comes back with a second plate loaded with a soft pretzel and sliders and a caramel popcorn ball.

Eliot rescues the plate and sets it on the high table before helping Ted climb up onto the barstool. “I told you so,” he says, because that's just how Eliot is as a parent and he's decided to quit fighting it. “Are you going to listen to me next time I tell you something is going to be fun?”

“Maybe!” Ted says brightly.

It is a nice party, and Eliot doesn't only think so because he gets to wear two separate nice outfits today, which has him feeling rich and sexy. The hotel ballroom is sparkly and sandy-gold, the DJ is decent, and the food has a whimsical, boardwalk sort of tone to it, mini meatball subs and sliders and cute little pizzas and the like. There's a cotton candy machine on the deck outside, and all the drinks are absurd cotton-candy-like colors, which Eliot loves – he's drinking his second purple one, which definitely has gin and lychee syrup and by the time he's on his third he'll be drunk enough to flirt with the bartender for the rest of the recipe. The whole thing is sweet and goofy, unironic fun if you're almost seven, an unpretentious way to unwind if you're an adult who's had to act elegant all day long. Eliot doesn't know Julia very well, but it still has her fingerprints all over it; he's sure that this party was her Miss Congeniality prize for letting her mother plan the actual wedding.

“Hey, how come your glass has glitter on it?” Ted says, making a feint toward grabbing Eliot's drink.

“If you touch it, they'll put you in jail forever,” Eliot warns.

Ted scoffs at him openly; Eliot's really going to have to start with a younger one if he hopes to be able to intimidate his kid, almost-seven is clearly too old to fall for Eliot's bullshit. “They don't put little kids in jail,” Ted informs him like Eliot's the dumbest person who ever managed to put on his shoes and socks all by himself. “ _Maybe_ I would have to do community service.”

“Do you even know what community service means?” Eliot asks.

“Yeah, like taking care of dogs and stuff,” Ted says vaguely, and Eliot has to marvel yet again at the sheer existence of this strange, small human who unquestioningly believes that Eliot is his people.

“Hi, can I sit here?” a woman's voice asks, and Eliot turns to look at Alice Quinn. She's wearing a two-piece outfit that's almost the same startlingly violet color of Eliot's cocktail, stuffed into a satiny corset-like bodice with an extravagant flounce of tulle skirt below it, along with sheer black stockings and black ballet flats. It's a confusing style statement that somehow combines slutty and girlishly whimsical, and yet Alice's composed face and ramrod posture imply that she's never in her life experienced a moment of sexual desire or whimsy either one, even though Eliot knows good and goddamn well that at least one of those things is a lie. She's such an odd thing. Well, at Alice's price point, Eliot guesses _eccentric_ is more accurate.

“Of course,” he says, gesturing to the chair beside him.

“Hi, Ted,” she says when she's seated. “Do you remember me?”

“Yes,” he says, serenely refusing to take a break from gnawing on his popcorn ball. “You're Dad's friend Alice, from the zoo.”

She seems both surprised and pleased that he remembers. “That's right,” she says. “Do you, um. Do you still like tortoises?”

“They're okay,” Ted says. “I like bats right now. Our school has a garden by the playground, and our class built a bat house, because bats eat the bad bugs and keep the garden safe. There's a place in Austin, Texas where a million and a half bats live under this one bridge, and that's the same number of people who live in Austin, Texas, so it's almost like every person who lives there has a bat of their own, isn't that weird?”

“Don't say you didn't learn anything at this party,” Eliot tells her dryly.

“I think it's very interesting,” she says, and Eliot almost believes her. “Eliot, I – I know you're busy, but I really felt like I should say something to you about....”

“Okay, but before you do that,” Eliot says, “you should know that I made a mistake. It was inappropriate to reach out to you the way I did. I'm honestly sorry if it made you uncomfortable in any way, and actually when you responded, I didn't even read it. It didn't feel right. So if you're going to proceed on the assumption that I know whatever it is you told me, then. I don't.”

“Oh,” Alice says, and frowns as she visibly recalculates her route. “Well. That's probably good. I took a little bit of a tone with you.” She doesn't say it apologetically, which Eliot admires about her. “Anyway, that's. I understand. It did make me uncomfortable, but I know that.... It's really scary, when you go through-- I've been there, you know? And I probably did some pretty inappropriate things, too. You're never really prepared, when it's someone you.... I know you love him and you were worried about him.” Eliot nods, very ready to be done with this. It's a party, god. “Anyway, he seemed – he seemed to be doing well. Last night, and today. He seemed happy.”

Eliot never pretends to know anymore. Quentin is soft and raw like a fresh bruise; he can be happy and weepy and happy and anxious and happy again all within the space of an hour, and Eliot is learning to stand back and watch while Quentin does what Quentin needs to do. It takes practice. He's practicing. “I know he's glad to be here,” Eliot says.

There's obviously more that Alice wants to say. Eliot watches curiously, sipping his drink, as she struggles silently through the decision-making process. Finally she says, “I don't want to violate anyone's privacy, but can you just – if you haven't – has he told you about Eliza Purchas?” Eliot doesn't want to violate anyone's privacy either, but he still shakes his head and waits for the rest. “Well, she was-- Quentin had, he saw a lot of different psychologists in college, and before that, too. I don't think he really – clicked with most of them.” That's easy to believe; Quentin is on his second therapist post-hospital right now, and Eliot doesn't have a great feeling about this one's future, either, from what Quentin's said. “But he saw Dr. Purchas for a while, and he really. He liked her a lot. I didn't like her, I thought she was.... Well, but. She was the only doctor I ever saw him actually want to go see. She left New York because she got a position at the Duke Center for Integrative Medicine, but – maybe if someone called her? She might know of someone near where you are now who she could recommend. Maybe not, but you could try. Anyway, that's why I did finally decide to write you back. I thought you should know – Eliza Purchas.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says, and he means it.

Alice smiles at him, and there's a lot of resignation in it, and a thin crack of self-deprecation running through. “I'm not as awful as people say, Eliot. He's a good man, and he needed me, and I left him. I know what that makes me. But I do want him to be well. In every sense.”

“It doesn't make you anything,” Eliot says. “He is a good man, but Jesus Christ, what were you supposed to do, stick around until he didn't need as much from you? That was never going to happen; you know it and I know it. So what does it make you, if you needed to live your own life eventually? Nothing. Human, is what it makes you. That's all I think you are, Alice.”

Maybe it's the purple cocktails talking, Eliot doesn't know. “I...” she says, clearly fumbling for something in the same time zone as socially acceptable to say in response to that weirdly intimate answer from a total stranger. “I really... I didn't mind at first,” she blurts out. “But it just got so....”

“I know,” he says, and fuck, he does know. He's been doing this for a year, and it's been nothing short of a crucible. Alice saw Q through four years, a full college degree, the worst of his mourning period for his father, two hospitalizations, and god only knows what else. Loving Quentin isn't a burden, it's honestly the easiest thing in the world, but Quentin's – illness or disorder or whatever you want to call it – that _is_ a burden on everyone who loves Q, and on Q most of all. Not everyone, Eliot suspects, would understand the difference between those two things. Alice Quinn, he's very sure, understands it well.

“I'm sorry,” she says, sticking her fingers underneath her glasses to brush at a sudden film of tears. “I know I did the right thing, but it was just – hard and sad, and it hurt to know he was going off all alone, and then it actually did not hurt less when he was barely alone for a hot minute before he found someone else, no offense?” Eliot shrugs, because honestly she's handling that part about three thousand times better than Eliot would in her place, so who is he to begrudge her a little bitterness around the edges. “But mostly, I just. I worry about him.”

“Don't,” Eliot says. “It doesn't help, you know? He's got his family, and he's got good health insurance, and – he's tougher than people give him credit for, including himself. Things change, but he's good right now, it's been a good day. You can worry about all the ways the future is out of your control, or you can enjoy the fact that all your friends are together for a beautiful wedding, but the bitch of it is, you can't do both at once.”

“That's good advice,” Alice says in a dark tone that conveys her intense suspicion of the very concept of good advice.

Eliot lifts his glass in her direction. “Eat, drink, and be merry, darling,” he says. “There are other options, but honestly, none of them bear thinking about.”

“You're really very different from Q,” she says with a wavery hint of smile.

“Not as much as you'd think,” Eliot says.

 

SEVEN THIRTY-FIVE P.M.

 

Eliot has done untoward things under the table at cocktail parties before, but rubbing Margo's sweaty foot where it rests on his thigh is a new – low? High? Life phase in general? “What have we learned about shoes that don't fit?” Eliot says.

“I bet they'll fit when I shove them up your ass,” she answers cheerfully.

“Your problem is that your dim-bulb boyfriend spoils you,” Eliot says. “Now I'm stuck picking up the slack because you've started expecting this kind of treatment.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Margo scoffs. “ _Picking up his slack._ Your whole self-esteem is so tied up in fussing over all of us that you're one feather duster away from French maid cosplay.”

“Mary Poppins, if anything,” Eliot says mildly.

After a moment, Margo remembers to say, “And he's not my--”

“Boring,” Eliot says with a roll of his eyes. Now that Margo's in a different department of the university doing an entirely different job (whatever a _senior marketing strategist_ does, Eliot hasn't bothered to learn that yet), she's been freed up to conduct her illicit affair with Josh non-illicitly, and in spite of what Eliot expected, that hasn't seemed to take the shine off of things. Eliot still doesn't truly understand the appeal of Josh as a human being, but he seems to be knocking it out of the park in terms of what Margo wants in a non-boyfriend – very into baking her brownies and eating her out and giving her somewhere to sleep over occasionally when she's feeling a little overly stir-crazy in her own condo, very not into romantic gestures or monogamy or talking about the future. It's a good arrangement, Eliot guesses, even though he can't shake the visceral feeling that Josh is _beneath_ a woman like Margo, and not in the sexy way. It's not Eliot's opinion that matters, though – which is probably the thing that bugs him the most, if he's being honest.

Not that Eliot is trying to make a habit out of that, but sometimes the honesty slips out into his surface consciousness accidentally. He blames therapy.

The music stops and the dance floor empties, people finding their seats as Julia's father tests the mic up on the platform where the wedding party and immediate family are seated. Ted makes his way over to Eliot and Margo, flush with the excitement of falsely believing he's been unsupervised all this time. Eliot could get used to this business of sending the kid off to play with other kids; their family doesn't come with a built-in army of cousins the way that James's family does, but Eliot makes a second-grade resolution to try harder this fall to do the playdate thing.

Julia's father makes his toast, which is mainly gentle ribbing about the end of many months' worth of successful efforts to avoid taking sides or having opinions about wedding planning. Eliot tries not to stereotype straight men, but they make it so _difficult_.

When Papa Wicker turns the microphone and the center spot standing between the happy couple over to Quentin for the best-man thing, Ted perks up from where he's lolling dozily in Margo's lap and shouts, “Dad! Dad!” Margo tries to shush him, though Eliot doesn't know why she bothers, everyone else clearly thinks it's funny and charming. Quentin waves in their direction to acknowledge Ted, which is all Ted wanted, and he's half-asleep again in no time.

“So, um,” Quentin begins, leaning hesitantly toward the microphone. Eliot notices himself holding his literal breath, and he makes himself unclench. It's been impossible not to agonize along with Quentin's quiet agony these past couple of weeks while he worked on his speech, but – it doesn't do any good, right? “So, most of you probably know that James and I, um – we went to high school together, and then we were also roommates in college, so. So we've known each other a long time, but actually we, we got to be close because he started dating Julia when we were teenagers, and I was – he kind of got stuck with her weird, nerdy friend. Actually, I think he kind of got stuck with me as a best man, too, because I guess I didn't look as nice as everyone else in the bridesmaids' dresses. So thanks for saving – um, everybody from that, James.” Quentin looks almost startled by his audience's polite laughter. He probably didn't rehearse this with a pause for a laugh, and Eliot just wants to _save_ him, and also Eliot is so fucking proud.

“But anyway,” Quentin says. Is he loosening up a little? Eliot thinks he might be. “I know it's hard to tell by looking at Julia now, but I'm going to go ahead and blow her cover by telling everybody that she was not the most popular girl in our high school. And I take my share of the blame for that, but in my defense, no Dungeon Master in his right mind would let a 16th-level druid leave the adventuring party just because she goes through puberty and wants to spend her Saturday nights on 'dates' or whatever. That was a very unreasonable expectation on your part, Jules, and I hope you see that, now that you're older and wiser.” Julia grins up at him, and she's never looked more like Margo to Eliot than in that moment. Whatever else you can say about Eliot and Quentin, they have remarkable taste in women.

“And specifically,” Quentin continues, “she wanted to date this tall, shiny-toothed jock, just because he was popular and handsome and at the top of his class and ridiculously nice to everybody, which I guess is – some people's type.” James throws him an exaggerated shrug, and this time Quentin seems less stymied by the concept of people finding his jokes funny. He's doing – okay? He's doing well, Eliot thinks. Not that Eliot's an unbiased observer, but it seems to be going well. “What most of you probably haven't heard before is that Julia talked me into helping her with this love spell she found on the internet.” Julia's smile reads as genuine and unbothered, even though she carefully mimes embarrassment with her fingertips pressed to her forehead. “Now, I'm sorry if this destroys anyone's faith in the power of love,” Quentin says, “but I have to break the bad news. James, the last nine years of your life have been completely the result of Julia's and my uncanny occult powers.” James says something that makes the table laugh, but it doesn't get picked up on the mic, so Eliot's not sure what.

Quentin laughs, too, but then he draws his hand through his hair with that funny aborted movement he's been making lately when he realizes the hair that he's expecting isn't there anymore. Eliot recognizes it as a getting-serious gesture, a Quentin-bracing-himself gesture. “Obviously, um, the power of an apple, a stick of cinnamon, and some poorly written poetry from a Geocities website was probably not so much – it probably factored in less than, um, the fact that Julia is – amazing and beautiful and fearless and loyal and kind, and James is no fool. But I do, actually – I think about us doing that spell sometimes, and on one hand – on one hand, it's obviously this kind of absurd teen-witch phase that a lot of dorky kids who read a lot of fantasy novels go through, but I think there's – more, in a way. More to it. Because when you're a teenager, you just feel. Everyone feels so powerless, and everyone – finds their own way to fantasize about having power, about – being able to control their life. And I think it says a lot about people, what they imagine they would do with power when they're young. And I know people change when they grow up, but – it's funny when you know people from the time you're kids, how in so many ways, they really don't change. I really still – when I look at Julia, I still see this person who has – power and privilege and success now, and what she wants to do with it is still the same thing she always wanted – is to love the people she's always loved. That's Julia's magic, and I think that's – in that sense, that's the, the spell that she casts on people. So, yeah. Jules, I don't know if you still believe in apple-cinnamon magic spells, but – you actually – you were right. I've kind of come around to – I think you were right all along, about it being real. If you call it – magic or faith or hope, I think – because of you, I think if you give that thing to the world, whatever you want to call it, if you give that, you get – you get amazing things back. So I hope you know that – you and James are inspirations to pretty much everyone who knows you, and – I really look up to you both so much, and I'm grateful for everything you've both taught me about. Coming at life with an open heart.”

Julia pops up out of her chair to hug the life out of Quentin, and most of the guests take advantage of the natural pause to applaud. When they let each other go, Quentin gets another hug and a warm bro-kiss on the cheek from James, and he looks adorably flushed and rumpled when he gets back to the business of toasting. “Okay, I don't remember how I was going to end this,” Quentin says, but he says it with a little grin that means he knows he's essentially done, and he survived. “But just-- James, Jules – it's been an honor to be your friend, it's an honor that you trusted me with a microphone and a captive audience when you know full well that I teach philosophy for a living, that speaks volumes about your courage. And it's an honor that I get to ask people to, um, toast now. To both of you, James and Julia, and your big hearts and your bright future together. Cheers.”

Everybody toasts except for Eliot, who gets caught up in his head and forgets to join in. He's used to seeing Quentin boxed up inside his quiet apartment with his books and his cat, boxed up inside his noisy head with his doubts and his regrets. He's not used to seeing Quentin like this – not used to seeing other people _see_ Quentin the way that Eliot does, and it's a lot to process. This man, Eliot's man, who's warm and witty and thoughtful, who's a father and a friend and a teacher and a writer, who _belongs_ in this world full of successful and loving and happy human beings. That little natural shyness aside, Quentin fits here. Eliot watches him smiling and joking and touching his friends, accepting their friendship like it's normal and natural, and he's so proud that he almost aches with it, with the weight of everything he has and the stretch of how much more he wants. A lifetime of more.

Eliot has been in the middle of a hundred kinds of rooms, but he's only ever felt at home in an Indiana brownstone where even the UPS guy never rings the bell, only ever been himself in the quiet chaos of ten rooms and a cat and a sewing machine and too goddamn many Legos on the floor. He's never come at life with the kind of heart that Quentin has, and he feels – soft and hungry and humble.

He could learn that. _Magic, faith, hope._ Eliot could learn it if he put his mind to it. If he let Quentin teach him.

“Okay,” Margo says, hopping on one heeled shoe while she wrestles the other shoe back on with the hand that's not holding onto Ted's wrist. “I'm taking him up to the babysitter's, it's room 300. I gave her your number for emergencies, so you might want to be marginally sober, and you have to pick him up at eleven, because I have a date with a bridesmaid tonight.”

“Oh yeah, which one?” Eliot says.

“I don't know, I've narrowed it down to two,” Margo says breezily.

“I love you, you're a beautiful flower,” Eliot assures her, trading quick kisses with her and Ted both. “And you,” he says to the kid with mock sternness, “good bats get fruit, and what do bad bats get?”

“Bugs!” Ted laughs.

“That's right, so if you're not good for the babysitter, I'm going to make you eat bugs.”

“I'm not going to eat _bugs_ ,” Ted giggles, rolling his eyes. “Mom, Eliot's being weird again.”

“Eliot can't help it,” she says. “He's twitterpated and it makes his brain mushy. He's going to sit here being weird while we go have fun, isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard? Chop chop, Mama doesn't have all night.”

The two of them dart off together like reckless deer through the crowd, and the colored lights over the dance floor catch and flash off Margo's sparkly red heels, and she shines, and everything shines.

 

TEN-THIRTY P.M.

 

Eliot does have fun at the party, _thank you very much_ , he is actually quite capable of being the life of any party, twitterpated or not. His greatest advantage at this particular function is that he's a competent, unattached male dancer, which means that he finds no shortage of genial widows and girls his own age with shitty, boring boyfriends who desperately need a dance partner.

He leaves Quentin alone to catch up with his friends, and then he keeps leaving Quentin alone just because he's curious about exactly how drunk Quentin plans to get. Drunk enough, it turns out, to take the center of the floor with Julia at one point and do a bizarre, hopping synchronized dance to some ten-year-old hip-hop song that Eliot barely remembers, but whose baroquely elaborate choreography seems to be embedded in the memories of these two absurdly pretty idiots. It's all very embarrassing. Eliot records the whole thing, but in his defense, so do at least twenty other people, so it's destined to live forever on social media no matter what.

When it finally feels like time to collect his dumb, drunk boy, Eliot joins the group Quentin's currently talking with, and immediately Quentin breaks off mid-thought and wraps his arm around Eliot's waist. “This is my boyfriend, isn't he beautiful?” Quentin says giddily. “And he's an _artist_ , he makes clothes and he cooks and plays the piano, he's _good at everything_ , he's so good. Hi, Eliot, where've you been?”

“Dancing,” Eliot says. “Come on, baby, let's get you some water, it's almost time to go.”

“It's early,” Quentin protests. “Or – is it early? I don't know what time it is.”

“Almost time to go,” Eliot repeats firmly.

They hang around a few more minutes, because Julia and James are getting ready to leave, so Quentin ends up drinking his bottle of Perrier standing in the crowd in front of the hotel while the newlyweds wave and hug and throw the bouquet and get into the car. Quentin gets a little weepy, because of course he does. “I hope they'll be happy,” he says earnestly.

“Me, too,” Eliot says. They still seem like an odd match to Eliot, but he's no expert. “Come on, let's walk down to the shore, okay? I'd really like it if you sobered up before bed, I think you'll be in a better mood tomorrow if you do.”

Shock flickers over Quentin's face as his sense of time washes back in bit by bit like the tide. “Oh, Jesus,” he says. “We're going to Mom's for lunch tomorrow. Oh, this was not a good idea.”

Whether he means the alcohol binge or the lunch, Eliot doesn't know and doesn't want to know at this point. There's no getting out of either, so who cares? “You'll be fine,” Eliot promises him. “We're just going to walk first.”

The fresh air and exercise helps, Eliot's sure. Quentin's arm through Eliot's feels more grounded, his steps less wobbly, as they loop around the block and down toward one of the piers. “Where's Margo?” Quentin remembers to ask after a bit.

“Banging a bridesmaid,” Eliot says.

“Oh.” Quentin frowns a moment, thoughtfully. “Madison or Angela?”

“No idea,” Eliot says. “We'll have to ask in the morning. You know, I was thinking. We should – have some people over when we get back. Nothing fancy, just. We could ask Poppy and--” _god_ “--Josh if they wanted to come play Castle Panic, have some cocktails and tapas.”

“That sounds like fun,” Quentin says.

Drunk idiot must wander down here a lot on Saturday nights in the summer, because there's a guy set up near the pier selling donuts and coffee out of his bike trailer, so Eliot plies his particular drunk idiot with caffeine and carbs before they find a bench. Eliot has half an eye on the time; he's aware they shouldn't be the assholes who are late picking up their kid, but Quentin is starting to look exhausted as the boozy high wears off, and Eliot can't bear to rush him. He's been so tired for so long.

“What kind of day did we have?” Eliot asks.

“Hm,” Quentin says. “I don't know. Exhausting. Good. I miss it here, you know? Not here-here, but. Home in general.”

Irrationally, Eliot feels a little stung. Of course this is still Quentin's home; he lived here all his life, minus one year. Still, though. It wasn't just any year. “We'll find you somewhere closer to home,” Eliot promises softly. “When you're looking for jobs.”

Quentin leans against him, shoulder to shoulder as they watch the waves roll under their feet and disappear below the pier. “We?” he repeats.

Eliot can feel the ghost of an old, worn-out fear, but he doesn't let it touch his voice. “Unless you were planning on sneaking off without the rest of us.”

“Mm. I better not,” Quentin says. “Fester would never get over you.”

“Fester tolerates me at best,” Eliot says.

“He adores you. That's just how he is, you know. He's been hurt before.”

“The price you pay for taking in rescues.”

Quentin grins, letting his head tip further onto Eliot's shoulder. “What can I say? I like the damaged boys.”

“Can I ask you something serious?” They really don't have time for this, but Eliot's not sure if he'll have the balls to ask, if he lets himself think too long about it. Quentin makes a soft, agreeable noise. “Can you tell me – about Eliza Purchas?”

Quentin picks his head back up and looks warily at Eliot before shaking his head with a slightly sour half-smile. “I wondered what the two of you were talking about.”

“I just wondered.... She didn't tell me much. So it's. It's up to you, you know. Whatever you want to tell me.”

“Nothing to tell, really,” Quentin says. “She was a psychologist I saw a couple of years ago. She moved away.”

“But you liked her.”

“I.... Yeah, I. Alice said I--? Alice hated Eliza.”

“She mentioned something like that,” Eliot says. “What's that about?”

Quentin sighs. “Alice is very. Practical. And she felt like the point of going to therapy should be, like – _practical_. Getting my life together, getting back in the game, finishing school, all that. Most of my therapists were kind of on that wavelength, you know? They did cognitive-behavioral therapy or sometimes acceptance-and-commitment. Eliza was a Jungian, so some of her approaches were a little – out there, by Alice's standards. I mean, I know it was a little – we talked a lot about my dreams, and we did these sort of – guided journeys, and. I don't know, it probably wasn't. Wasn't right for me.”

He sounds wistful in the strangest way. “Why wasn't it?” Eliot probes gently.

Quentin looks away, out to sea. “Well, that's my whole problem, isn't it? I retreat into fantasy worlds. And everyone else was trying to get me to – to grow up, to focus, and Eliza was having me going on weird imaginary quests talking to ogres.”

“Did it help?”

Quentin doesn't answer him immediately. Eliot thinks it's not because he doesn't know the answer; he's holding his face twisted away like he does when he's embarrassed. “In a way,” he mutters. “She got me to start writing the book. She got me to....”

“Hey,” Eliot says, sliding his arm around Quentin's back. “Baby. It's just me. You can tell me.”

“It just sounds so juvenile,” Quentin says, his voice heavy with scorn, aimed only at himself. “But she was – the only person I felt like I could say certain things to. About my father, mostly. About how – how ashamed I was, because he was such a good father to me, and I was so-- How I wasn't there to take care of Ted the way my dad took care of me.” Quentin rubs his eye with the back of his hand and snorts a little laugh. “Four hundred top-flight New York therapists trying to get a bright rich kid through the Ivy League, and it was so– It was the hardest fucking thing I've ever done, admitting that – maybe I didn't want that, maybe I didn't – care about Yale the way I was supposed to. I felt like the minute I said out loud that I wanted to go to Indiana, the world would implode around me. Which it kind of did.”

Yeah, Eliot thinks but is wise enough not to say, _no wonder_ Alice hated her. Eliot leans in, resting his face against Quentin's soft, shorn hair. “Ever wish you'd gone to Yale?”

“Never,” Quentin says, rough and immediate. “Never once.”

“So okay then,” Eliot says. “Maybe the ogres know what they're talking about. We'll get you a dream journal and the best hippie that money can buy.” He loves the way it feels when Quentin laughs against him. He loves so much that he makes Quentin laugh. “It doesn't sound juvenile to me – or not in a bad way, at least. It sounds like you just found someone who – speaks your language, I guess. What's so wrong about that? If she got you to do _the hardest fucking thing you've ever done_ , then honestly, fuck anyone who has a problem with that.”

“I guess,” Quentin mumbles.

Eliot kisses above Quentin's ear before standing up. “Come here,” he says, holding his hand down to Quentin. “Dance with me.”

Quentin looks up at him, bemused. “Dance? There's no music.”

“Don't be boring,” Eliot says. “I didn't get to dance with you at the reception, so you owe me. Come on, _cara mia_.”

“Why am I always the girl?” Quentin complains as he lays his hand in Eliot's.

“You're not a girl,” Eliot assures him, drawing him up into his arms. “But you are six inches shorter than me and a very bad dancer, so just try to follow along and don't get fancy.”

“How are you simultaneously the most and least romantic person I've ever met?” Quentin asks as he folds himself into Eliot's arms.

Their feet sound too loud, clomping dully on the boards of the pier, but the moon is full and the water glows, everything glows, everything's fine. “ _Do you remember all the city lights on the water_ ,” Eliot sings half-under his breath, his head bowed over Quentin's ear. Quentin's breath catches in his chest; Eliot can feel it. “ _How you saw me start to believe for the first time? You made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter, you are the best thing that's ever been mine._ ”

“And you let me believe you didn't know any Taylor songs at all,” Quentin says with lazy, fake affrontedness.

“I didn't,” Eliot says. “I do now.”

“Okay, fine,” Quentin says. “I take it back, you're romantic.”

“Damn right I am.” Eliot comes to a standstill and cups his hand under Quentin's jaw, tilting his face up. “Because I want to be,” he says softly. “I always wanted to be, and I never – thought I could. You know you can do the things you think you can't, too, right?”

Quentin smiles at him, sweet and sad. “I'm not you, Eliot,” he says. “God, who could ever be you except you?”

“Hm,” Eliot says. “We should go, sweet boy, we're running late to pick up the kid.”

“Okay,” Quentin says, but he doesn't let go of Eliot. “Why didn't-- What does that mean, you didn't think you could?”

Eliot has no idea, none at all, how to explain to Quentin – who Eliot is, who he was, how long it's taken him to come up from the deep, dark place where he buried himself a lifetime ago. What it means now, to be someone who's allowed to be soft, in a life that it's safe to love and want and – maybe need? Maybe even _need_ , maybe even that much vulnerability is allowed now, if Eliot wants it. Eliot just shrugs, aware of the warm, grounding weight of Quentin's hand on his shoulder, and says, “Not that many people are worth the effort.”

“But I am?” Quentin says with a sparkling little smile. “I'm a _lot_ of effort.”

“Not as much as you'd think,” Eliot lies easily, because Quentin is a _fuck-ton_ of effort, but still, but still, but still. He's worth the world to Eliot.

Quentin slips his arms around Eliot's waist and presses against him for just a moment, and for just a moment nothing is real except for warm summer moonlight and the scent of ocean salt and the warm, breathing weight of Quentin Coldwater in the circle of Eliot's arms. Eliot closes his eyes and surrenders whatever that thing is – _magic, faith, hope_ – sends it out into the world like he's never been afraid of anything in his life, and everything glows, and everything is fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to tell you all what this story and this fandom have meant to me, so I won't even try. I am better in every way for having written it and happier in every way because you've read it and commented. Thank you, and if you're not already following me on tumblr, I'd love to keep up with you there; I'm [spiders-hth-is-an-outlier](https://spiders-hth-is-an-outlier.tumblr.com/)


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